Lord of Janissaries (52 page)

And there were a thousand other details, and meetings to hold tonight, now that he’d located the edges of at least one legion. Battles to plan and kingdoms to govern and he hadn’t even planted the first stick of
surinomaz
and Lord how every joint and muscle ached!

But some problems were solved. They held the bridge. There would be no difficulty in linking up with Marselius—indeed, Flaminius might be caught between them. He’d have to fight.

And there were political victories. Clan Calder an ally. Or at least its chief is. The Romans I killed today haven’t died to no purpose. There’ll be fewer knives aimed at my back, and the longer I live the more I can do on this world—

How many get the chance to change the destiny of a whole world? I’ve been given that chance. Every man who died today will save hundreds over the next few years.

He told himself this as he swung up into the saddle. He would go on telling himself this, until perhaps someday he would believe it. And through it all, he could still hear the small voice in his mind which said, “Rick Galloway, are you
sure
you’re not a coward?”

15

The monotonous beat of the kettledrums ceased. Second Pike Regiment spread forward to stand guard, while Third Pike began construction of a temporary camp. Roman engineers supervised as the pikemen, assisted by archers, drove stakes and dug ditches.

“Bloody waste of effort,” someone muttered behind Rick. One of the Tamaerthan knights.

“It will not be
your
effort wasted,” said another knight. Dwyfyd, Rick thought. Better, though, to pretend he hadn’t heard at all.

At least none of the knights was arguing that they ought to dismount and take their ease while the foot soldiers built their camp.

“Aye. We hae learned from the Romans to sleep well at night, knowing we will no be surprised. And that, my lords, is no small thing.”

Drumold, of course, Rick thought. But the voice seemed to come from a very long way away. Suddenly he swayed in the saddle—

* * *

“My lord.”

Rick didn’t want to open his eyes. There was a hot smell. Lamp oil. Why would they be burning lamps in the afternoon? He opened one eye. Yellow light. Brown walls. He tried to sit up.

“Stay easy, my lord.”

His eyes focussed at last. A young acolyte of Yatar. And Rick was on a cot, in his own tent. It was late enough that lamps were lit.

“Is he awake?” Drumold’s voice came from outside.

“Yes, Lord. I will go for the priest.”

“Do that.” Drumold came in to sit next to Rick. “Are ye well, lad?”

“Certainly.” He tried to sit up, but his head felt light. “I don’t understand what happened—”

“Hah. You’re battered and torn, lost blood from three wounds. Your thumb’s the size of a gull’s head and your ankle larger than his body. Withall, you sit a horse all day and you wonder you faint? Rest, lad.”

“Can’t,” Rick said. “Where is Publius?”

“Camped nearby. All is well, Rick.”

“Is there word from Marselius?”

Drumold hesitated.

“There is, then.”

“Aye. But—”

“Drumold, we have a battle to plan!”

“It will wait a day.”

It won’t, Rick wanted to say; but instead he let his head fall back on the pillow.

* * *

He awakened the next morning to the sounds of trumpets and shouting men. He tried to leap from his cot, but his ankle wouldn’t hold him. Then Mason was there to help him back to bed.

“What—”

“It’s nothin’ to be worried about, Cap’n. Some bigwig from Marselius’ army, with a legion for escort.”

“A legion? That’s Marselius himself!”

“Likely it is,” Mason said.

“I have to go meet him—”

“How?” Mason asked. “You can’t hardly stand long enough to dress yourself.”

“Damn it, I can’t greet Caesar from my bed! Get my robes!”

“Robes, hell,” Mason said. “You go out, you wear armor. And you eat some hot soup first.”

Soup. That sounded good. But armor? Yes. Not for the reason Mason thought. Not assassination; but it would be fitting to greet Marselius Caesar in armor. Marselius would be wearing his best, no question about that. “All right, help me get on my mail. The shiny set.”

“How about this?” Mason asked. “Arrived an hour ago.”

It was a new set of armor, featuring the breastplate fancied by Roman officers. Bronze oak leaves—no, by God, those were gold!—were soldered to the shoulders. There was a shirt with mail sleeves to go under it. The links were silvered, and the finest Rick had ever seen.

“Fancy enough,” Mason said.

“A king’s ransom,” Rick said. “From Marselius?”

“No, sir. From Publius. In honor of your taking the bridge.”

“I will be dipped in—” Publius? That ass?

The armor fit perfectly. Which of Rick’s people had Publius got his measurements from? It hardly mattered. And certainly this was the right thing to wear . . .

* * *

“Hail, Caesar,” Rick said.

“Hail, friend and ally.” Marselius smiled and came closer to clasp Rick’s hand and shoulder. It was a genuine embrace, making Rick wince. “Your pardon—”

“It’s nothing.” But he was glad for the armor.

Both armies stood in ranks in the bright light of the True Sun, watching their commanders greet each other. Wine was poured, and Rick and Marselius drank, then exchanged goblets and drank again. “Silly ritual,” Marselius said. “But I suppose necessary—shall we go inside, while Publius and Drumold carry on?”

“Yes.” He followed the Roman into the command tent. Maps were already spread on the table.

There was a man seated by the table. Two of Marselius’ personal guards stood next to him.

“I think you did not meet Aulus Sempronius,” Marselius said. “He was the tribune commanding Flaminius’ troops at the bridge.”

“Hail,” Rick said. “I am pleased to see that you live.”

“I understand that was your doing. Thank you.”

“You will recover, then?”

He didn’t look good. His left leg was stretched stiffly before him. It was bound in leather splints. His left arm was also bound to his chest.

“I do not know,” Sempronius said. “Your—” He struggled with the word. Finally he said it. “—
priests
say I will. Our healers are less certain. Your rituals are strange but they seem efficient—”

Marselius looked worried. “My Lord Bishop will arrive in a moment,” he warned. “Does it go well, son of my oldest friend?”

“You call him friend even now?”

“Certainly. Because your father sees his duty to serve Flaminius makes his friendship no less valuable. More.”

“Ah.” Aulus Sempronius was silent for a moment. “I do not think your son shares this view. Left to him, I would be in the hands of the
quaestionairii
.”

“Never,” Rick said. “You surrendered to me. Who harms you answers to me!”

“By what right do you speak thus to Caesar?”

Publius had come in. Rick turned slowly. What I’d like to say, you pompous little bastard, is by right of the magazine in this Colt. But that won’t work too well—

“By the right that any honorable man holds. By the rights of honor,” Marselius said. “Hail, Publius.”

“Hail, father. Hail, Lord Rick.”

“Have you no more to say to our ally?” Marselius demanded.

Publius nodded, his lips pressed tightly together. Then, in a rush, he said, “I ask pardon. I should not have spoken as I did.”

“Why hasn’t he attacked?” Publius demanded. He turned to Aulus Sempronius. “Why?”

“I cannot answer—”

“Aulus,” Marselius said. “Aulus, I have granted full pardon and amnesty to all who will accept. There were no conditions, and there will be none. But—will you not submit to me as Caesar? Will you not aid me in ending this war? How can it harm Rome, that this war end?”

Aulus frowned. “And yet—Ah. How can it matter? He has no need of battle,” Aulus said. “As you must know.”

Rick nodded. “I thought that the bridge too lightly guarded. We were intended to cross.”

“Your spies have served you well,” Aulus said bitterly.

“No. It should have been obvious there were too few troops to hold it long,” Rick said. “Only you fought so well I did not understand until now. And when we march for Rome—”

“He will let you go forward. Then we retake the bridges, and hold you to this side of the river until you starve. May I have wine? Thank you. It deadens the pain.”

“It is not good for you,” Rick said.

“More witchcraft of Yatar?” Deliberately he poured another goblet of wine and drank it off. “Soon you will lose your army to desertion.” Aulus laughed sharply. “If we do not lose ours first.”

“You have many deserters?” Rick asked.

“As must you.”

“We’ve seen few enough of yours,” Rick said. He looked to Publius. “Have they come to you?”

“They do not go to Marselius Caesar,” Aulus said. “They go home, to protect their families from bandits and slave revolts, and the legends of—of—”

“Of The Time,” Rick said softly. “So you know of that also.”

Aulus nodded, and drank again, his third large cup. “Our bishops say that God will punish this world.”

That’s one way to look at it. I wonder how many deserters Publius has had. None we caught, but we weren’t really looking for them.

“So Flaminius will not attack,” Marselius said.

“Caesar, he will not,” Aulus Sempronius said. “But say not Flaminius, who is not here.”

“Who commands?”

“Titus Licinius Frugi.”

“Gah,” Publius said.

“I feared as much,” Marselius said. “My best legate. He was with me at Sentinius.”

At Sentinius. “Then he will find my pikes and archers no surprise,” Rick said.

“None,” Aulus said.

And he knows my secret. The secret of any hedgehog formation. If you don’t attack it—how can we take the battle to cavalry? We can’t even
catch
their cavalry. And if they wait until we’re in line of march and sweep in—

“Then we march on Rome,” Marselius said. “If he refuses battle, so do we.”

“Except that the further we go—”

“The more recruits we will have,” Publius said. “We come closer to our home estates. And to lands which know Flaminius the Dotard all too well.”

“He will burn the crops,” Rick said.

“How can he?” Marselius demanded. “His own troops won’t let him. Nor will Flaminius. Nor will the Church. He
can’t
burn himself out. No. We march on, and when he attacks, we’ve got him.”

Or he’s got us, Rick thought, but there was no point in saying that. How did it go?

On foot shuld all Scottis weire,

By hyll and mosse themselffs to reare.

Let wood for walls be bow and spear,

That enemies do them na dare.

In strait places gar keep all store,

And byrmen ye planeland them before,

Then shall they pass away in haist,

What that they find na thing but waist.

With wiles and waykings in the night,

And meikill noyse maid on hyte,

Them shall ye turnen with great affrai,

As they were chassit with sword away.

This is the counsel and intent

Of gud King Robert’s testiment.

But Flaminius couldn’t possibly have heard of Robert the Bruce. Or could he?

* * *

Two days march were two days of agony for Rick. His ankle remained swollen, so that he could not stand in the stirrups. He recalled the ancient joke, a cavalry manual:
Forty Miles in the Saddle
, by Major Assburns. It took on new meaning with each mile.

But I can’t lead from a wagon, he thought. Though I’m going to have to, if this keeps up.

They marched onward into Flaminius’ territory; and the deeper they went, the hungrier they were. Despite Marselius’ certainties, the land
had
been laid waste; there was little or nothing to eat. All food and stores had been carried away, and the fields burned.

They grew weaker in other ways, too. For every recruit they collected, they had to leave two men behind as garrison. They had, when they began, three legions of cataphracti, two veteran and one militia, and two cohorts of Roman pikemen, nowhere near the standards of Rick’s veterans. Now one of the legions was under strength, and there was only one cohort of Roman pikes.