Lord of Janissaries (42 page)

In spite of Tylara’s heart-stopping smile, Rick wasn’t entirely sure those words were a compliment. He frowned. “I intend to keep the promise and try to negotiate a peace, if we can’t give Marselius a victory.”

She stared at him. “That is impossible. How can there be peace in Rome after three seasons of war?”

“Not easily, I admit,” said Rick. “But if Marselius issues the proclamation I’m about to suggest, the chances will be better. He should announce that he will punish no man for any act done in obedience to a proclaimed Caesar. I’ve already proposed to the ambassador that Flaminius do the same. A mutual pardon for everything done during the war.” They did that during the Wars of the Roses, when the English Parliament formally legislated that no man could commit treason by obeying a crowned king. If they hadn’t, there wouldn’t have been a Yorkist or Lancastrian left.

“Marselius might agree. He might even keep such an agreement. Not Flaminius. The man is a fool. Otherwise he wouldn’t have pushed Marselius into rebellion at all.”

“Perhaps Flaminius wouldn’t agree, by himself. But can he go against all of his commanders? They’re losing soldiers, sons, estates. Some of them must be wiser than he is about what needs to be done to prepare for The Time. If they no longer need fear for their lives, who knows what advice they might give? I don’t.”

“It is still a pardon for treason. Do we want anyone to make the lot of the rebel so much easier?”

“There are different kinds of rebels, it seems to me. Marselius with his legions is not the same as a mountain bandit with a dozen ragged followers.”

“Not in your eyes, at least. I hope that this does not mean that all starmen take their oaths as lightly as Colonel Parsons did.”

Rick sighed. When she got this sharp-tongued, he could either change the subject or be sure of a fight. It wasn’t worth having a fight now. He would have to lead her gradually if at all toward his own position on how to treat rebels. There were going to be many of them, as The Time approached. The Time itself would kill enough people on Tran. If being generous with pardons could reduce the toll of life and property from the rebellions, wasn’t it at least worth trying?

It wouldn’t be Tylara’s way, of course. For her or any other Tran dynast, the rule for rebels had been, whenever possible, “Hang first and ask questions afterward.” One more thing to be changed. If possible.

* * *

The charts on his office wall grew more detailed, and he collected chests of papers.

Item. It had been the warmest spring in living memory. Some farmers, heeding the priests of Yatar, planted early, and found their crops growing high. Others waited. All chanced heavy rains and hail. The entire pattern of Tran agriculture was changing.

Rick’s survey teams went through the land, teaching and gathering data.

According to the reports, they did more data gathering than teaching; but they had accomplished the first agricultural survey in Tran history. What crops here? What last year? Are you using the new plows introduced by the University? What fertilizers?

Those using the new plows were able to get their seeds in so fast they were heard to talk of being able to get a second crop before winter. Those who’d used the new plows the year before talked even louder. With more fodder during the winter, their draft animals were stronger than usual.

Rick gathered all the information and reduced it to statistics. The raw data sheets went up to the University. Slowly his database grew.

He also dictated letters. One letter went to Gwen; that one he wrote himself. Except for Tylara no Tran native could read English, so that for sending messages to Gwen and the mercs it was better than code. That was worth the inconvenience of writing for yourself.

Find out if Marselius can send us a dozen or so trained clerks and scribes who can write well and teach things like basic filing procedures. It may be, of course, that the Roman civil service of the time of Septimius Severus has vanished, but I rather think something very like it must have survived. Else how could they have kept even this much of an Empire together for so long? And I am told the Roman “scribes” are said to know magic. Probably simple scientific training. Whatever it is, we can use it.

Which would set Gwen hunting bureaucrats among the Roman rebels. The priesthood of Yatar would be another problem. If Rick could forge a Roman alliance, would the priests cooperate? The Romans were Christians who persecuted Yatar and Vothan One-eye as pagan gods. Lord, Rick thought. What must I do? I
need
the hierarchy of Yatar, to spread science through the land. And will the Christians cooperate?

The priests of Yatar were the key to survival. They must have a strong organization, or the temples couldn’t have survived the Rogue Star and the nuclear bombardments, not once but at least three times. With the cooperation of Yanulf and the priesthood much could be accomplished; without it, Rick was in trouble.

It was ironic, his going to all this trouble to re-invent bureaucracy. However, the whole idea looked different here on Tran, where information that could save thousands of lives might be lost because there
wasn’t
a policy of writing up three copies of everything.

Rick put down the pen and held his head in his hands. More than ever he felt the pressure. “Every time I want to do anything, I first have to do two other things, one of which is impossible,” he shouted. “Tiger by the tail, hell! I’ve got two tigers, and I’ve got to get them together so I can ride them. One foot on each!”

There was no one to hear him but the walls of his office, and they made no answer. Rick sighed and lifted his pen again. He had to write Warner at the University . . .

7

The chair creaked under the weight of Caius Marius Marselius, onetime Prefect of the Western Marches, now Caesar by right of conquest and proclamation of the legions. It was not a title he had sought, but once the proclamation was made it was one he had to win—or be killed for. Not just him. His son as well. All his house. Flaminius would leave none alive.

And when Marselius marched in triumph to Rome? What of the house of Flaminius? Time to think of that when it happened.

Outside they were lighting the streetlamps. Marselius could see them go on, one by one, down at the base of the hill where his villa stood. Benevenutum was a large city, third largest in the empire, and in many ways as pleasant as Rome; but it wasn’t Rome, and an emperor who did not hold Rome was only a rebel.

Marselius bent forward to squint at the parchment he held. The late-afternoon light was fast failing. His freedman Lucius wrote with a firm hand, but it seemed harder to read lately.

Well, neither of them was getting any younger. His own eyes were not what they used to be. He summoned a servant to bring lamps, then he waited until the man went out before spreading the letter again. Not that he did not trust his servants, but this was too important. The confidential report on the embassy coming to him from the Lord and Lady of Chelm and the Kingdom of Drantos, written by the one man he trusted entirely . . .

—Drumold, father to the Eqetassa Tylara, would seem a typical barbarian chieftain. However, he is very intelligent and entirely trusted by the Lord Rick. He has made enemies among the clan chiefs of his own land in his loyalty to the Eqeta, which hints of a kind of courage most uncommon among barbarians. They are often brave in battle, but seldom understand and still more seldom show the higher civic virtues.

Lucius, Lucius, my old friend, thought Marselius. You spent too long as tutor to my son Publius. Now you
will
lecture, whether it is needed or not. Or perhaps you are rambling as old men often do. Well, before the snow comes again we shall both be so high in the world that everyone will listen to us for as long as we want, or else we shall be forever silent.

The Lady Gwen Tremaine is of the starfolk, but knows much history and reads Latin well. She is said to be very intelligent but is certainly young for the place she holds in the embassy. It is said that she owes this to having been Lord Rick’s mistress, after the death of her husband.

The Guardsmen of Chelm—

Marselius skimmed the description of the embassy’s escort until he found mention of star weapons. Good. They were bringing one which used the firepowder. Too many of his officers were skeptical about the star weapons and badly needed a demonstration, his own son among them. He himself would not mind learning more about these new war machines, so that if the alliance came about he would be able to plan the battles properly.

Certainly he would not need that many more ordinary soldiers. He had two full good legions of his own and a third which was neither so full or so good, plus enough cohorts of foot archers and pikemen to make up two more legions if that honorable title could ever again be allowed to foot soldiers. Then there were the light horse and foot scouts recruited locally. No lack of men.

Except—if Lord Rick did send a strong force as well as star weapons, it would release more of his own men for local defense. The reservists in the legions whose homes were close to the boundary between the two Caesars would fight better if they knew their own homes were safe. More militiamen would come forward. And there were the borders to the south to be held. He could use what Rick might send—and it was never good to let a man know that he could buy your friendship cheaply. No, Lord Rick would have to be ready to send an army to Rome if he ever wanted an army from Rome.

Marselius got up to pace back and forth in front of the great map on the wall. Mentally he shifted a cohort here, sent a tribune to raise more militia there. Everything would of course be discussed at length in the council of war he must hold before the embassy came, but he wanted his own ideas fully prepared before then. The older he grew, the more necessary it was to appear infallible and the harder it was to do so.

* * *

Gwen Tremaine stretched luxuriously and let herself slide down into the hot water until only her face was above the surface. The tiled tank wasn’t
quite
large enough for a swimming pool, but otherwise it was living up to everything the name “Roman bath” implied. It was the first really adequate bath she’d had since Les dumped her on Tran.

It had surprised her, how much more important the little things of civilization seemed when you didn’t have them. Sometimes they loomed larger than the big ones. She knew that if she got a cavity the tooth would have to come out, with no anaesthetic except ethanol. She knew that if she had another baby and needed a Caesarian, she would probably die, and the baby hadn’t a much better chance. She could accept these dangers, at least intellectually.

Hot baths were another matter. You missed them every morning and every night and every time you got sweaty or dirty. It was the same way with Vivaldi concertos, cold beer, Chicken Kiev, pantyhose—

“Lady Gwen?” said a small voice from right above her head.

Gwen controlled a foolish impulse to plunge out of sight. Instead she sat up, crossing her arms over her breasts. “Yes?”

“My name is Octavia. I’ve been sent to help you with your bath.”

Which was no surprise. She’d rather expected someone waiting for her when she went in to take her bath. If Marselius was going to do her the courtesy of letting her bathe alone, he would certainly not leave out things like servants, towels, and scented oil.

“Thank you, Octavia.” Gwen ducked under to get the last of the soap out of her hair, then climbed out of the bath. Octavia clapped her hands, and two older girls came in with deliciously warmed towels. When they wrapped her in a robe of fine wool, Gwen felt she had found civilization at last. Eventually the others were dismissed, and Gwen was alone with Octavia.

Who was she? While the others had dried her body and combed her hair, Gwen examined the girl minutely. Octavia looked to be about twelve or thirteen, and was already at least two inches taller than Gwen. With her big bones she’d grow even more. She was red-haired, but apart from that her strong, rather plain features had a lot in common with Marselius’.

And although her manners were impeccable, she spoke to the servants in a voice which made her requests orders to be obeyed. Gwen looked down at the hem of the girl’s robe. It was embroidered with an elaborate pattern done in gold thread and what looked like pieces of blue enamel or seashells.