Union Forever

by William R. Forstchen

  A rain of bolts shot overhead, disappearing.

  Cautiously Vincent poked his head up. It was curious. The arrows were arcing high, coming down in a slow lazy curve. Gradually the volley died away, and then shouts echoed farther down the line from sentries calling a warning.

  "Just harassing," Vincent said with a laugh, coming back up to his feet.

  "First consul."

  A legionnaire came racing up the steps from the street below, his hobnailed sandals striking sparks on the rough-cut stone. Saluting, he stepped forward, an arrow in one hand, a strip of parchment in the other.

  "This message was attached," he said, handing it over to Marcus.

  Motioning over to an enclosed turret, Marcus stepped inside and stood next to a flickering lamp and held the message up.

  "The bastard," Marcus whispered.

  "What is it?"

  "He's appealing directly to the Senate, announcing the same terms, offering everything. As long as I am removed."

  Vincent shook his head.

  "He certainly knows how to play the game," Vincent said sadly, leaning against the wall.

  Now what was he going to do?

  Petronius stepped around the table and extended his hand.

  "I always knew I could count on you in our hour of need," Petronius said with an eager smile.

  Lucullus hesitated and then reached out and accepted the handshake.

  "He is still my cousin, ruler of the Graca family. I would prefer no harm to come to him in all of this."

  "But of course," Petronius said smoothly. "We of the patrician class certainly cannot go around murdering each other over these squabbles. It sets a bad example and might give the rabble the wrong idea."

  "Yet these are new and different times, my friend," Catullus interjected. "Those of the Graca clan have ruled Roum for hundreds of years, and we certainly wouldn't want to change that. Now we will have you. Besides, Marcus has no sons now. At his age, if he has more offspring they will be weak and sickly. We need someone of vigorous blood who has already sired sons to rule after him. The legion, of course, will support you, since you are the first commander under Marcus."

  "I must go and prepare," Lucullus said stiffly, and dropping Petronius's hand he stalked out of the room.

  "A formal bastard," Catullus said as the door slipped shut.

  "The Gracas are like that," Petronius laughed.

  "How long have you been working on him?"

  "Even before our contact was established with the Carthas," he said lazily, impressed by his own foresight. "Oh, I was glad when Marcus threw back the Tugars. Every twenty years they looted us dry, and twenty percent of our laborers disappeared. With them gone we have unlimited power.

  "But when I saw what these Yankees really were, I knew we would have to fight them. I never said anything directly to Lucullus—he's too stiff, with that honor-of-patricians foolishness. But the seeds were planted."

  Petronius went over to a side table, speared a sliver of honeyed meat, and munched on it absently.

  "It's dark out now?"

  "Should be."

  "Good. The rabble will be getting their little messages. A truly ingenious idea. Make a reasonable offer which Marcus would most likely refuse, then turn the mob against him."

  "Perhaps a bit too neat," Varius, youngest of the senators, said coldly.

  Petronius cocked his head and gave Varius a quizzical look.

  "Not backing out now, are we?"

  Varius hesitated.

  "I won't stop you, if that's what you mean. I no more like what the Yankees threaten than you do. It's just we should remember that Cromwell and the Carthas are not going through all this trouble out of the goodness of their hearts. We must consider what their plan is as well."

  "Are you going to whine about the Merki or Tugars again?" Catullus snapped.

  Varius looked over at Catullus and said nothing.

  "The Yankees are more of a threat than the Merki could ever be. Just yesterday I had a slave put to death when I heard him whispering some Yankee nonsense about every man being equal."

  "That kind of talk is dangerous," Petronius said sharply. "It could be the end of all of us."

  "I agree with that," Varius said.

  "Then we are not in disagreement," Catullus said with a soothing smile.

  "And the Merki?"

  "Well, if they should come," Petronius said, lowering his voice, "we all know that the Yankees cannot stand against them, especially with what Cromwell has given them, something the foolish Tugars did not have. Anyhow, if that is the case, then wouldn't it be better to be on the winning side?

  "After all, they eat peasants, not patricians," Petronius added with a cold laugh.

  Varius shook his head in disbelief.

  "It is sometimes hard to imagine I am on the same side as you."

  "But you already are, Varius," Catullus said, his voice dripping with oily sincerity. "This time tomorrow, Marcus will be gone, and Lucullus will be in his place."

  "Dear foolish Lucullus," Petronius laughed. "With the imagination of a block of stone. He'll be easy enough to rule."

  "With Marcus alive and the Yankee soldiers in the town, there could still be a rally point," Varius cautioned.

  "Poor Marcus," Catullus giggled.

  "You did promise Lucullus he would be allowed to live?"

  "Oh, did I?" Petronius said absently. "You know how dangerous the summertime is. Why, just last year my lamented wife came down with such a terrible stomach complaint."

  "Tragic," Catullus sighed. "I know how heartbroken you were, Petronius."

  "And the Yankees?" Varius whispered, his voice edged with disgust. "They'll fight you the moment they suspect."

  "Such fools—they really should be careful of what they eat."

  "If I did not believe this was to save the Roum we know, I would spit on you," Varius growled, and he stalked out of the room.

  "Varius, just remember whose side you are on," Petronius snapped, his voice full of menace.

  "I will. You have me in too deeply already," Varius retorted without turning back. "I'll remember to eat alone, though, in the future."

  The two senators looked at each other and laughed.

  Chapter Eight

  "End of the line!"

  "Thank God," Andrew groaned, sitting up from his bunk and looking out the window.

  It was early morning, the first faint streaks of dawn creasing the morning clouds. Fumbling for his glasses, he put them on. His mouth tasted gummy, and he smacked his lips with disgust. Gregory had received a chewing-out regarding the fact that his toothbrush had been forgotten. He was tempted to yell at the boy again, but in the gloom of the car he saw him peering back and felt it would simply be too cruel.

  Gregory came back cautiously and held out a mug of tea. It was cold, but he gulped it down anyhow and felt a little bit better disposed.

  "Help me with my jacket and sword, son," Andrew said, standing up. It was something about losing an arm he had never quite gotten used to. Dressing in a uniform alone and fumbling with the buttons was difficult with one hand, but the sword belt was simply impossible.

  "It's going to be terribly hot, sir," Gregory ventured. "Maybe you'd prefer your four-button jacket."

  Andrew was tempted. The jacket was the standard Union Army issue for enlisted men that went down to his hips, while the officer's jacket weighed damn near twice as much and went down to mid-thigh. Of course they were both wool, something that still struck him as insane for an army that had served in the scorching heat of the South. On the grueling forced march to Gettysburg he had seen hundreds of men go down with heat exhaustion. The steppes in the summer were going to be worse.

  "I think I'll keep the officer's jacket on today," Andrew replied. The Rus expected their leaders to dress grandly, and today he knew he'd have to comply.

  Gregory, shaking his head with concern, helped Andrew dress and then stepped back and nodded approvingly.

  "Le
t's go out and see what's facing us," Andrew said. As he started through the car, his staff looked at him expectantly. Several were coming back in, looking somewhat wide-eyed, and from their expressions he knew.

  Stepping off the platform, he hit the ground.

  "God make it a dream," he whispered.

  The side of the track was chaos for as far as he could see. The only semblance of order was with the men of the 35th, who under the sharp commands of their company officers were already falling into line from the train behind him. Looking to his own train, he saw men were still leaping off cars, wandering about, cursing, laughing. Officers and non-coms were shouting at the top of their lungs. A panic-stricken horse, eyes wide with fear, galloped past, several artillery men chasing it.

  Grim-faced, he stalked down the length of the train, taking it all in. Reaching the back of the next train, he scrambled up on the caboose and looked at the ladder that led to the roof. Taking a breath, he grabbed hold and climbed up slowly. Reaching the top rung, he crawled up on the roof. To his amazement a soldier was stretched out on top sound asleep.

  "Just what the hell are you doing here?" Andrew roared.

  "Trying to get some sleep, damn you. Now leave me alone," the soldier groaned. He opened his eyes, blinked, and shot up. Before Andrew could say a word the man heaved his equipment over the side and leaped to the ground, disappearing into the crowd.

  As far as he could see ahead, the track was jammed with trains. The grounds to either side were a mass of confusion. There seemed to be no semblance of order. Thousands of boxes of rations and ammunition were piled up haphazardly. Men were off in every direction, guns were rolled out by the track and none were deployed forward.

  He was seething with rage.

  "It certainly looks a mess." Emil, puffing hard, came up to join him.

  "It's an outrage," Andrew snapped.

  "Remember, son, you are in command," Emil said quietly. Andrew turned to face the doctor, ready to explode.

  "Don't turn it on me, Andrew Lawrence Keane," Emil said with a disarming smile. "Why don't you just sit up here for a couple of minutes and think about it?"

  "Sit here?" he sputtered.

  "That's right. Just sit here and join me in a little drink."

  Emil reached into his pocket, pulled out a flask, uncorked it, and offered it over.

  Andrew took a hard pull, shocked by the sharp potency of the vodka as it hit his empty stomach.

  "You've been under a lot of strain. You've got to keep your calm about you. Get excited and your officers get jumpy. They get jumpy, then everyone gets on edge. It's been a couple of years since our last action. We've all got to get back in shape for it."

  A whistle shrieked behind him. Startled, he looked back and saw another train sliding to a stop. Farther up the track he saw the small town of Hispania, its white limestone wall glowing red with the dawn. The railroad siding was aswarm with activity, and at least there he saw some semblance of order. Several batteries were drawn up, guns deployed in a defensive perimeter, a sharp line of freshly dug earthworks enclosing the area. A chain of men were hauling boxes up over the embankment and heading in the direction of a vast open-walled warehouse.

  He started to breathe a bit easier.

  "We've never tried anything like this before," Emil said evenly. "It's new to everyone, including you. Of course things are going to be a bit chaotic to start, but once we get the boys marching they'll fall back into the old routine.

  "I'd better get started," Emil continued. "We need to find some wagons for the hospital equipment. I've also got to set up a base hospital here—we've already got some sick lads and quite a few injuries to take care of. I'll report to you later, son."

  Andrew looked over at his friend and offered the flask back.

  Emil took it and then tossed off a long drink before corking it. "Medicinal purposes, of course," he said with a grin and disappeared over the side of the car.

  "Gregory!"

  "Down here, sir."

  "Get Mercury out, walk him a bit, then have him ready to go. Staff meeting in ten minutes. Send some runners up the line. I want brigade and division commanders here. Now move!"

  "Colonel Keane?"

  Andrew stepped over to the side of the train and saw Andy Barry.

  "Get up here, Barry."

  The old former sergeant scrambled up the side and, gaining the top, cautiously approached Andrew and saluted.

  "Go on and report," Andrew said.

  "Well sir, it's a bit out of hand here at the moment."

  "I can see that," Andrew said quietly.

  "Sir, the trains came in late, as you know. We had planned for them to get here yesterday afternoon so we'd have plenty of light. We just weren't ready to handle an army coming up to the end of the line like this."

  "You don't need to make excuses, Barry," Andrew said, desperately working on forcing a disarming smile. "We'll straighten it out."

  He could see the officer relax.

  "You expected me to chew your ass off, didn't you?"

  "Well, ah, yes sir," Barry said cautiously. "It kind of looks pretty bad out there," and he nodded up the line.

  "It does, but we'll fix it up soon enough, won't we?"

  "Yes sir," and Barry straightened up and smiled.

  Dammit, I've been too long behind a desk, Andrew thought reproachfully. You start ruling by paper rather than face to face and you forget. He remembered the fat sleek officers of the Army of the Potomac, who sat in the rear lines or pranced about in Washington, controlling supplies, playing politics for promotions, currying favor, and by their stupidity and venality killing thousands of good men who deserved better and rarely got it.

  Could I have become like that? he wondered. He could feel the tightness of the uniform that two years ago had hung loosely on him, like a jacket pulled over a tree limb. Don't forget this moment, he cautioned himself. It is far too easy, the older we get, to become what we once despised. Was this another price of peace, to lose the edge, or was it the price that war demanded?

  "What's the report forward?"

  "We pushed up a patrol all the way to the watch point the telegraph crew established, about ten miles outside the city, and reinforced them. So far they haven't sent anything up this way at all, sir. The rail bridge we were building over the Po is planked. I've got some engineers up at the Tartus working on a quick crossing—the bridge was only partially up. The bridges the Roum had on their old Appia Way are still intact."

  "And they haven't moved anything this way?"

  "Not a sign of 'em, sir."

  "Curious."

  "My thoughts as well, sir. I mean, hell, sir, if I was them, I would have screened up this way a whole hell of a lot further."

  "It's almost like they're inviting us in."

  "That's what me and a lot of the boys have been thinking as well."

  Just what is Tobias up to? he wondered. He was starting to feel like a mouse being lured into a trap. There were far too many possibilities to sort out. The objective, at least, was still clear: to relieve Roum as soon as possible. His worst nightmare was the thought that the Carthas would take the city and then there would be a bloody fight to win it back, since it was impossible to leave a hostile force in control. The other possibility was far worse—that Roum itself might be hostile by the time he arrived. He suspected Marcus was less than enthusiastic about their alliance. If that happened, he knew what fate would be in store for Vincent.

  He would have to push on as fast as possible. All he could see was to somehow spring the trap, if there was one, and then jump away in time.

  "We've got our work cut out, Barry. We'd better get to it. Whatever supplies we don't take I want safely warehoused by evening. Colonel Mina will be coming up on the last train. Try to get some semblance of order with all these engines before he gets here. You know how he can be when he gets upset."

  Barry gave a wry grimace and nodded.

  "By the way, you're staying behind here w
ith your brigade," Andrew said as if by an afterthought.

  "Sir? We was hoping to go up with you."

  "You're our construction crew, Barry. You and the boys are too valuable to lose on a volley line. And besides, I think it'd be best to leave a solid covering force at our rear, just in case."

  Barry's features dropped with disappointment.

  "You know it's for the best, Barry. I need you more here."

  "Yes sir. It seems like I've worked my way out of being a soldier, that's all."

  "You might get more soldiering than you want soon enough," Andrew said, not sure why the thought had even formed.

  The senators looked from one to the other uneasily.

  "This is most irregular," Scipio said coldly, coming to his feet. "Where is Marcus?"

  "He was not invited," Petronius said sharply.

  "Not invited, you say? We sit as advisers to him as heads of the twenty families. He is first consul, as his father was before him."

  "And he has betrayed us. Come now, this war is none of our concern, it's Marcus they're after, not us. You just heard Lucullus describe the terms. The whole city knows them now. If we act, we can end this battle today."

  "You're proposing treason," Scipio replied, looking about the Senate chamber for support.

  "I'm proposing salvation," Petronius snapped. "It is Marcus who is the treasonable one for allowing all of this to start."

  "They came here as invaders, they've killed hundreds of our people. Marcus is doing the only thing possible—fighting against them."

  "And what about the Yankee invasion?" Catullus shouted. "It is they who are the threat."

  "They could have come here sword in hand and annihilated us," Scipio argued. "They offer us trade, prosperity, and a common alliance against the hordes."

  "And they talk about slaves being free," Petronius sneered.

  "After listening to the likes of you, I think I would almost prefer that," Scipio shouted, coming to his feet.

  "There is nothing more to be said between us," Scipio announced, his angry gaze sweeping the Senate chamber. "Those who stand against this madness should come with me, else you will be judged accordingly."