Lord of Janissaries (48 page)

“Exactly what everyone will be saying. He was our enemy, and he is dead. It is not much of a secret that Dughuilas is suspected of planning the balloon accident.”

“It is also not much of a secret that Dughuilas has been the leader in half of what the knights and bheromen have done against you. Do you care so little for your plans that you will fret over the death of one of their worst enemies?”

“I do not. But there are honorable and dishonorable ways—”

She looked ready to spit on the floor, or even in his face. “You are not the only judge of honor here. I also have to judge what honor demands, for us and for our plans and for our children. Have you forgotten that? Or was André Parsons perhaps right? Are you too soft toward enemies to live long among us?”

“Enough!” Rick leaped from the bed. “I will go to my rooms. I have never laid hands on you, but by Christ—” He stalked toward the door, then stopped and turned. “I’ve lived longer here than Parsons,” he said. “But then perhaps this is because I’m a coward. Go on, you can say that. Everyone else has.”

He fumbled with the bolts of the heavy door. Can’t even make a decent exit, he thought. Crap.

“My love.” She stood next to him, and her face held grief. “My love. Forgive me.” He gently gathered her into his arms and held her while she cried into the fur of his robe. Her hair had its old silky springiness back, now that she’d completely recovered from Isobel’s birth.

“Forgive me, my love,” she said finally. “Nor I, nor anyone doubts your courage or your honor. Only you. You have doubts enough for all of us, foolish doubts, for you are the bravest men I have ever known.”

“Not likely—”

“Enough for me, then. Now come to bed. How can we let a man like Dughuilas ruin our last nights together? Come to bed, my love . . .”

* * *

Later, after they had made love, he woke and lay sleepless. In a few days he would lead an army to war. Vothan One-eye would be loose in the land again. And how many soldiers have told themselves that what they do is right? All of them?

Now I’ve got to fight, and if I’m killed, will any of my plans be carried out? I think I’m indispensable. Necessary. Have to stay alive or no one will. Easy thing to talk yourself into. Easiest thing in the world.

Reasonable. Makes sense. Hah! The man who wondered if he was a coward because he had gone out for track instead of football in college still lurked inside the Eqeta of Chelm. Not very far inside, at times like these.

I can change what they think. I can prove myself. If I don’t—

Dundee. John Graham of Claverhouse, Viscount Dundee, the only man since the Bruce to unite the Highlanders; the man who might have kept Scotland independent of England and the Stuarts on its throne. He’d known he was indispensable. So had the chiefs.

But at Killiecrankie, Dundee personally led the army. “Once,” he promised his allies. “Once only. But until they know I am worthy to lead them, I cannot lead them where we must go.”

And he’d fallen at Killiecrankie, ending the Highlander cause . . .

I have to win their respect. How, I don’t know. But I have to do something . . . with Dughuilas dead by assassins it’s even more necessary. Reasons of state. And I have to live with myself as well.

Tylara stirred slightly, and he covered her bare arm, resisting an impulse to waken her and lose himself in her. Then he stared at the ceiling again.

PART THREE

ANGELS AND

MINISTERS OF

GRACE

12

“Pass in review!”

Drums thundered and pipes skirled as the massed forces of Rick’s army marched across the parade ground.

“Eyes—RIGHT!”

The First Pike Regiment marched past, their pikes held aslant, the regimental banner dipped in homage to Rick and the others on the reviewing stand. The banner held three battle streamers; one, Sentinius, might be an embarrassment under the circumstances, but most of Rick’s units had been there and were proud of it.

Rick glanced to his right where Publius stood at attention, but gained no clue as to what the Roman was thinking. Publius was an enigma; his manners were perfect when in public with Rick, but spies said he was given to cursing the barbarians whenever there was the slightest reason. He was also interested in women, and his success as a Don Juan impressed even the lustiest of Tamaerthan lords.

And what, Rick wondered, must Bishop Arrhenius think of his Emperor-to-be? The Roman Christian Church seemed considerably less preoccupied with chastity than did its counterpart on Earth, but even so there
was
the Sixth Commandment . . . More to the point, though, what did His Lordship think of all these pagan allies? Whatever he thought, he said nothing. He stood next to Publius, splendid in his cope and mitre; and if he longed to go make converts among Rick’s army, he showed no signs of it.

Second Pikes marched past, then Third and Fourth. They kept their lines straight enough, although they were not expert at parade ground formations. Rick wondered again what impression he was making on the Roman officers. His army was hardly uniform; it seemed that no two men wore the same equipment. Some had breastplates, some mail byrnies. Some had Roman helmets, others had modified captured Roman equipment until it was hardly recognizable; some men wore leather jerkins and no armor at all. None had a lot; the pikes were supposed to be lightly armed, able to march hard and fast, then fight for a long time. Rick knew their value; but would these haughty Roman officers understand?

“Present—Arms! Eyes—RIGHT!” Battalion guide—on banners rose high, then snapped downward to the salute. There was another thunder of drums, then fifty pipers; and finally the archers.

Rick saw Publius nod sagely as they went by. They were impressive enough even to look at, their long bows held at high port, and over their backs quivers filled with grey gullfeathered arrows a clothyard long, tipped with a deadly bodkin point that would penetrate armor at short ranges, and kill a horse at two hundred paces and more. There were never enough archers; it took years to train them, years spent at the archery butts when you might be doing something more lucrative. Many wealthy enough to become archers would not; they considered themselves part of the chivalry of Tamaerthon, and learned to ride and fight with lance, usually neglecting the art of the bow. Most of the archers were sons of yeomen and freeholders, the closest thing to a middle class Tamaerthon had.

The archers wore kilts of bright colors, and colored shirts, and many had jewelry, particularly bracelets. They’d fared well in Rick’s previous battles, and being lightly armed and mobile they’d been able to get extra loot despite Rick’s orders about sharing the booty.

Even the Romans appreciated their value; although Rick suspected that Publius did not understand the value of combined arms, cavalry, pikes, and archers fighting together as a unit, each covering the others’ weaknesses.

Behind the archers came Tamaerthon’s knights. They were impressive enough in their haughty ways, but they were not as well mounted as Drantos knights and bheromen—certainly not as well as the Roman heavy cavalry, the splendid cataphracti who’d once dominated most of this continent. Their armor wasn’t as good, either; the chivalry of Tamaerthon couldn’t really take its place in the main battle line. With training they could make good scouts. He’d organized about three hundred of them into a Hussar Regiment. The rest had too much pride for that.

“You have brought mostly Tamaerthan troops,” Publius said. “I see few enough of the chivalry of Drantos.”

“True, my lord,” Rick said. “I saw little need for more heavy cavalry. Your legions should suffice for that. Instead, the Lord Protector chose to send auxiliary troops. Light infantry and cavalry. And foragers, and wagons, and siege engineers. We will have trouble enough feeding this army as it is; why add to that trouble?”

Publius frowned. “It is the cataphracti who decide battles,” he said. “Others can be useful, but the art of war consists of having heavy cavalry in the right place and using them well.”

So far it does, Rick thought. I hope to change that . . . “Aye, my lord. But the chivalry of Drantos can hardly match your legionaries. It would seem a worthless exercise to bring them when we have more need of wagons and transport.”

And I can just hear Drumold grinding his teeth at that one, Rick thought. He knows his cavalrymen are no match for Romans, not even one-on-one—certainly not in unit engagements.

“You honor us,” Publius said. “But—I see few enough soldiers here—”

Fewer than these defeated one of your legions, Rick thought. And did it in their first battle. Now they’ve got pride, and they
know
they can stand up to a Roman charge . . .

The Tamaerthan Hussars trotted by. Their nominal colonel-in-chief was Tylara; today they were led by Teuthras, one of her cousins. Tylara, after many protests, had seen the necessity of having someone completely trustworthy to hold Castle Dravan, their home. Rick sent her with most of the mercenaries, their ammunition, and weapons; the weapons were under guard of Tamaerthan Mounted Archers, and there were equal numbers of loyal Drantos and Tamaerthan troops with her. Rick had no real doubts that the dozen mercs he sent with her would remain loyal—but there was no point in tempting them.

Behind the light cavalry came engineers with siege engines, including portable ballistae and catapulta—and wagonloads of their ammunition, clay pots filled with gunpowder and potshard shrapnel.

And finally the mercs: Sergeant Major Elliot, Corporal Bisso, and a dozen troopers in camouflage coveralls and web belts, carrying rifles and grenades.

“We have brought enough, I think,” Rick told Publius. “Those men alone can win any battle we might fight. Each holds a thousand men’s lives in his hand.”

“This is still not all of Flaminius’ army.”

“If you saw a thousand of your men die, suddenly and violently, for no reason you could see, while the enemy was yet a mile away, would that not be decisive?” Rick asked gently.

Publius shuddered. “Indeed.”

And you’re wondering how much of that to believe, aren’t you? Well, you’ll find out soon enough.

* * *

They were five days march into territory claimed by Flaminius. There had been no battles; only an endless series of minor crises, decisions to be made, looters to be punished—