Union Forever

by William R. Forstchen

  The senators looked uneasy, but none stood.

  "Then my curse on all of you," Scipio barked. He turned on his heels and stalked from the chamber.

  "We should stop him!" Catullus cried. "He'll warn Marcus."

  "Let him," Petronius laughed. "Even now Lucullus is arresting our illustrious leader."

  "They're abandoning the walls."

  With a smile, Cromwell looked up at Hulagar and Vuka and smiled.

  "Is it not happening as I said it would? The first formation will go in at daylight."

  "This is merely the opening move," Vuka said sharply. "The diversion before the main course of the meal."

  Cromwell looked at Vuka uneasily and saw Hulagar bristle at the lord's choice of words.

  "Oh, don't worry about it," Vuka said with a sardonic grin. "Just a figure of speech, nothing more."

  "It's still a success that will bring me pleasure," Cromwell replied.

  "It is the other action I am more concerned about," Hulagar pressed.

  "Hinsen is in control of that and should be in position by now. The last train has undoubtedly come in."

  "That is the one we want, just remember that." Hulagar replied softly. "How much longer before we can expect them?"

  "Perhaps as early as tomorrow night. Keane will force-march them."

  "Is he with the army?"

  "I'm certain of it," Cromwell replied coldly.

  "All of them are in the Senate chamber at this very moment."

  "Why are you disturbing me with this news?" Marcus growled sharply, looking angrily at Vincent and the trembling slave by his side.

  "Julius and I have something of a friendship, Marcus," Vincent said evenly.

  Marcus looked at the two and gave a snort of disdain.

  "A friendship between a slave and one such as yourself?" Marcus said coldly.

  "He is a loyal man," Vincent said hotly. "As good a man as myself."

  "And by implication you are saying he is as good as me," Marcus said with a disdainful laugh.

  "I'll not argue that now," Vincent retorted, "but you'd better listen to him. We don't have much time."

  "Go on then."

  With a groan Marcus came to his feet. Vincent was shocked by his nakedness, a manner of sleep all the Roum seemed comfortable with, but he would most certainly never adopt.

  "The men who serve the Senate chambers," Julius began, "have been suspicious now since this evening, when those letters were shot into the city. About an hour ago my cousin Flavius—he works as a scribe—came and told me the senators were all meeting in secret at the house of Petronius."

  "Let them," Marcus snapped.

  "Lucullus was with them."

  Marcus turned to look at Julius, a sharp interest now in his eyes.

  "Go on."

  "Flavius told me that a friend of his, Garba, was ordered to bring in some wine. Lucullus and the senators were talking. They fell silent when he came in. When he left the room, he lingered by the door. He heard Lucullus say that he would see to your arrest and that a cohort will surround the Rus soldiers and hold them there until the Carthas are in the city."

  Marcus looked over at Vincent.

  "How reliable is this?" he snapped.

  "As the saying goes," Vincent said coldly, "I'd bet my life on it."

  "I'm going up to the legion."

  "I doubt, sir, if they will support you any longer."

  "They are my personal army," Marcus shouted. "Of course they'll support me."

  "They're scared men," Vincent replied. "They've suffered a shocking defeat. Petronius's people have been spreading some fairly effective lies the last couple of days. The bombardment is wearing them down even more. If they fight the Carthas they believe they'll die. This offers them a way out, and the fact that Lucullus offers this to them will decide the issue. Like it or not, Marcus, the Tugars were the base of your power. If any dared to move against you and your established order, the Tugars would help you in your vengeance. When you defeated them, your old system was bound to change. There is a void in the structure of power, and others are now eager to fill it."

  "How can my legion, my guard, betray me?" Marcus said, his voice suddenly weak.

  "Someday I'll tell you the rest of the history of the old Rome," Vincent replied evenly.

  "Then it's finished?" Marcus asked, his voice distant.

  "Not yet," Vincent said emphatically. "I'm calling the 5th in now to occupy your palace."

  "But the walls."

  "The hell with the walls," Vincent shouted. "It's your life I'm fighting for now."

  "But when the Carthas break in they'll batter this palace down with their heavy guns, and you'll die, trapped in here with me," Marcus said, trying to force a sad smile. "Take your men and break out of here while there's still time."

  "Quite heroic, Marcus, but it'll mean my army will just have to fight its way back in."

  "For what? I'll be dead, Petronius will make peace with the Carthas, and you'll be fighting both of them." '

  "You have an army waiting to fight for you right how."

  "Who?"

  "The only people who will truly benefit by the defeat of those who serve the hordes. Free the slaves, and they'll fight to the death for you."

  He tried to keep his features even, but the stunned look of Julius forced a smile to his lips.

  "This was your plan all along," Marcus snapped.

  "Never this way. We had hoped that in the end it would be peaceful. I'm afraid it won't be. You hold the decision, Marcus. I think you are noble enough that your own death might come second in your mind to that of Roum. The Carthas are but a mask for the hordes. I'll tell you bluntly—if the Senate defeats you now and throws in with the Carthas, we will fight to get the resources we need. But we are desperately few. Without your people by our side, both Rus and Roum will fall, especially now that we know they will have the same weapons we do. If you do not do this, all of Roum will perish in the end, for if I were the Merki I would annihilate any human who had tasted freedom or knew of the weapons we have."

  "You ask too much," Marcus whispered.

  Brimming with anger, Vincent came over and grabbed the man by the shoulders.

  "Goddammit, Marcus, you don't have much time. You'd better act quickly."

  Vincent felt as if he were about to explode with pent-up anxiety. It was all so straightforward and simple, and yet the man refused to see the truth.

  "I don't think I can," Marcus whispered.

  "Sir, the regiment's deploying into the palace. Ammunition is being moved over from our barracks right now— we're bringing it through the slave quarters."

  "Julius, I want the basement slave quarters made ready for a hospital area. Our surgeon will tell your people what to do. Get some fires going right now. Take linens and start boiling them."

  The man nodded.

  Vincent turned and saw Dimitri standing in the doorway, with Bugarin beside him.

  "I want men posted at every window. Get the guns inside and set up firing ports in the doorway. Take anything you can grab to build some fallback positions, on the far side of the courtyard. That outer wall will take some pounding. Once it goes, we'll fight from the courtyard. We'll hold the ground floor as long as possible, then retreat to the second. See if you can haul a couple of the guns to the second floor to fire into the courtyard."

  "This building's good thick stone," Bugarin said with a grin. "It'll take 'em a while to batter their way in here."

  "Now get to it."

  The two saluted and left.

  "So you're going to stay till the end."

  "That's what I promised the president. I'll hold until relieved."

  "What manner of men are you?" Julius said softly.

  Vincent shook his head.

  "At the moment, scared to death, Julius."

  "You know you'll die here," Marcus said, the dejection in his voice a disturbing note.

  "You still hold the key to that," Vincent snapped, "bu
t I'll tell you right now your options are closing in. If we can hold till Andrew comes—and I doubt that—we'll prop you back up, but you'll be a puppet for our government."

  Marcus looked sharply at Vincent, unable to reply.

  "It's that simple, Marcus. I'm telling you the plain facts of politics. Rus is fighting for her life. We need what you've got. I wanted to see us work as partners, but if my regiment sacrifices itself to save your hide, personally I'll want the price paid back. You've lost your legion and your Senate. We'll run things after that."

  "You'll run it," Marcus said dryly.

  "The hell with it all," Vincent snapped. "I'm resigning this post and going back to Rus. Let someone else do the dirty work, because I've had a bellyful of it.

  "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got other things to attend to."

  Without waiting for a response, he strode out of the room to find Dimitri waiting for him in the hallway.

  "Well?"

  "The bastard refuses to budge," Vincent said.

  "Something's forming up out in the forum. I came back to get you."

  Cold with rage, Vincent stalked through the palace, pulling out his revolver and checking the load. Coming to the partly open doorway, he saw a formation of the legion gathering up in the early-morning mist.

  With an impetuousness born out of an all-consuming anger, Vincent stepped out of the protection of the doorway and onto the marble steps of the palace, and looked coldly at the men who had stopped their advance.

  "What the hell do you want, dammit?" Vincent shouted. "You should be back on the walls defending your city."

  "The war's over," and Lucullus stepped out of the ranks. "We are here to arrest Marcus Licinius Graca on the charge of treason to the Senate and people of Roum."

  "The traitorous dogs you call the Senate?" Vincent laughed. "As for the people, they should consider whom their Senate has sold them to.

  "The Carthas are the envoys of the hordes," Vincent shouted, his voice carrying across the square. "Your Senate will sell all of you to the slaughter pits by this act."

  "Out of the way, Yankee," Lucullus shouted and started forward.

  With a flourish, Vincent cocked his revolver and pointed it straight at the advancing soldier.

  "Don't you move a goddam inch," Vincent yelled, trying to keep his voice from cracking.

  A hush fell over the square. From the comer of his eye Vincent could see several bowmen moving into position.

  "Tell your men to back off," Vincent warned. "They might get me, but by the eternal, I'll put a bullet through your head before I'm finished."

  "I am commanding you to surrender your sword, Lucullus," a voice called behind Vincent.

  A smile crossed Vincent's features.

  "I'd advise you not to come out, sir," Vincent whispered, still keeping his weapon pointed at Lucullus.

  "The hell you say."

  Vincent felt someone brush against his shoulder, but he didn't dare to look.

  "Lucullus is no longer in command of the legion," Marcus shouted. "Now return to your posts before the Carthas are in the city."

  The moment held, neither side moving.

  "The legion is no longer yours," a voice called from the square.

  "Ah, Petronius, the heroic leader, hiding behind his men," Marcus sneered.

  "To save the people of Roum from you."

  "For the final time, I command the legion to return to its posts."

  "The Carthas are in the city," a cry echoed up from a distant corner of the square.

  "Back inside," Vincent whispered.

  "Not yet," Marcus snapped.

  "Then hear me now," Marcus shouted. "I declare that any man or woman who is a slave and who comes forward to defend our country will henceforth be free."

  Vincent felt as if the world had shifted into a blur. He heard Petronius screaming to kill them, and saw Lucullus crouching low as if to race forward. The archers fired. Diving to one side, he knocked Marcus to the ground, snapping off his revolver as he fell.

  Lucullus spun around, hitting the ground hard, while a wild angry shout seemed to echo up across the square. Hands came around him, pulling him back inside, even as he dragged Marcus with him. Gaining the door, he saw the dark-clad livery of the Carthas rushing forward through the square, the snap crack of musketfire echoing out.

  A thundering volley lashed out from the palace, cutting into the Carthas, and to his horror taking down a number of the legion as well.

  Gasping, Vincent came to his feet and saw a red stain on Marcus's toga.

  "You're hit!"

  Marcus struggled to his feet, forcing a smile as he looked down at the arrow lodged in his arm.

  "It could have been worse," he replied, his voice slurring slightly from shock.

  "Well, you really went and did it," Vincent said with a smile.

  "Too late, though," Marcus said coldly. "I should have done it the moment this all started."

  "Well, at least you made the move. Now if we can only hold on. The people will rally to your support."

  "I doubt if it'll do any good," Marcus replied, swaying slightly.

  "Take him out of here," Vincent ordered. "Get the surgeon to fix him up."

  Marcus offered no protest as several men led him away.

  "What did he say out there?" Dimitri asked.

  "He offered freedom to any slave that fought."

  Dimitri laughed.

  "A shrewd offer. Rather conditional freedom, I'd say."

  Vincent could not help but smile as he realized what Marcus had actually said.

  "It's a start, Dimitri, it's a start."

  Vincent went back to the crack in the door and peeked out. The mob was still scattering in every direction. Not a shot was being fired from the palace, and he thanked God that the men were not killing any more of them. The Cartha detachment had pulled back into the forum, and from the far side of the plaza he saw a gun being moved up.

  "The trick now is to hold," Vincent said, "and pray that these people help us."

  God, it was worse than anything he had ever known in Virginia. Swaying in the saddle, Andrew was tempted to take another drink of hot water from his canteen but fought the urge down. The next river was still a good ten miles away, and the only thing around him was the steppe.

  Raising his hand to shade his eyes, he looked around. The gently rolling hills were going from green to brown in the high heat of late summer. The grass was like a vast ocean, waving with the puffs of hot wind that swirled and eddied, bringing no relief from the torment.

  He struggled with the nausea, knowing it for what it was.

  I can't collapse now, he whispered to himself. There are still hours to go. I can't collapse now.

  A fantasy danced through the mirages. It was autumn, a cooling wind coming in off the ocean of Maine, the icy surf crashing on the rocks foaming white, washing up over him and Kathleen. She was smiling, standing in the tall grass, with Ilya, his old border collie, by her side. How deliriously cool she looked, her white dress fluttering in the breeze, pressed against her body, showing every line and curve. She was standing before him, Ilya barking and dancing with joy.

  "A cool drink of water, love?"

  Laughing, she was holding up a pitcher, rivers of droplets falling. Coming closer. Her clothes had slipped away, showing the fullness of her breasts, the leanness of her slender thighs, a bewitching smile of love in her eyes.

  "A cool drink of water."

  "Oh, God, thank you."

  "Sir. Colonel Keane, sir?"

  "Thank you, love, thank you."

  "Colonel Keane, sir!"

  "Bullfinch?"

  Confused, he looked down at his adjutant, his face bright red with the heat.

  "Sir, you were talking. Are you all right?"

  Embarrassed, Andrew looked about. His staff was behind him, walking down the dust-shrouded road. On the next rise ahead, a mile away, the mounted skirmishers were deployed. His eyes aching, he looked to either sid
e. Behind him, wending their way down the Appia Way and the railroad embankment alongside, the regiments and batteries pushed forward, their flags held high, their forms shimmering and swaying like ghosts in the blasting heat.

  "Colonel, sir," Bullfinch said, his voice insistent, "a message just came in on the telegraph line."

  With an anxious face. Bullfinch handed the message up, and Andrew could see that he had read it.

  His glasses could not seem to focus on the words, there was something wrong with them, and absently he took them off and held the telegram close. It was useless.

  "Read it for me," Andrew said, letting his hand drop away, his glasses falling.

  Bullfinch fell behind for a second and then appeared again, holding the glasses back up. Andrew absently took them and slipped them into his pocket.

  "The message reads as follows, sir. 'Forward scouts report Roum fell this morning to Cartha. An envoy from Roum is at our station declaring our help is no longer required, that Roum and Cartha have signed an alliance.' "

  Something stirred within. He felt as if he had been slapped.

  Reining Mercury in, he came down from the saddle. As he hit the ground he felt as if his legs would buckle. He had to hang on to the pommel. With deliberate slowness he stepped away from Mercury and took the message from Bullfinch, and putting his sweat-streaked glasses on he read it for himself.

  "Ten-minute halt," Andrew said, and wearily he sat down.

  A bugle call sounded, was picked up and rolled across the steppe. All around he could hear the sound of exhausted men sighing, equipment clattering to the ground.

  "You all right, sir?" Bullfinch asked.

  "I just need a couple of minutes," Andrew said quietly, ashamed at his own weakness. It was one thing he had never truly adjusted to during the war. The killing heat of summer would sap his strength, draining it away. More than once on the march he had thanked God he was an officer who could ride; otherwise he knew he'd have died on the road. The men of the 35th had never judged him harshly for it, but the humiliation of the weakness had always troubled him.

  "It'll be night in a couple of hours, sir," and he looked up to see Hank Petracci, the balloonist, walking through the grass, giving him an understanding smile.

  "Not soon enough. Jack. I wish we had your balloon along."