Lord of Janissaries (77 page)

All joined in the cry. All but the Lord Mason.

“What’s happening?” Mason demanded urgently. “What
is
this?”

Titus Frugi stared uncomprehendingly for a moment, then understood. “Ah.
Imperator
is a title, Lord Mason. It can only be given by Roman soldiers to one who has led them in battle. Those hailed as Imperator are recognized as worthy to lead a Roman army.”

“It doesn’t mean, uh, like Wanax?”

“No. They do not hail him as Caesar. Only as
Imperator
.”

“Yeah? And that’s all this means?”

Titus Frugi sighed. “Certainly no one could be offered the purple who had not been hailed as Imperator.”

“And if he marries Octavia . . .”

“
When
, my friend,” Titus Frugi said. “As you well know. Nor can I think your Captain General Rick will be much surprised by this event—”

Mason shrugged.

It is hard to tell what the star lord thinks. But since I have no more of Publius’ good will to lose this day—and I do know that Marselius Caesar thinks highly of his granddaughter—He turned to his tribunes. “Geminius.”

“Sir?”

“When the messengers return to camp to bring up the supplies and the surgeons, you will go with them. Bring back a
corona aurea
for the Wanax Ganton. We will also need three
coronae civicae
, one each for the lords Mason and Caradoc, and one for the Lord Camithon’s bier.”

“Sir!”

“You are pleased, Tribune?”

“Aye, sir.”

And so are Sulpicius and the centurions, Titus Frugi thought. Yet I wonder what will be the end of what we have begun this day . . .

* * *

Mad Bear woke in near-darkness. His head throbbed, and when he tried to lift his hands he found they were bound with cloth strips.

I am a prisoner. This is not the Lodge of the Warrior, nor is there so much pain that I have fallen into the hands of the demons. He sat up, and saw that he was in a dimly lit tent. A tent of the Horse People, not an Ironshirt tent.

At the door sat Arekor, the priest of the Warrior who had been a slave among the Red Rocks until he vanished in a raid on the Green Lands. Now Mad Bear was certain he had not died, for Arekor could never have earned so much honor as to guest with the Warrior—

“So, Centaur-lover. You have come to take revenge by taunting me?”

Arekor poured water into a cup and held it to Mad Bear’s lips.

At first Mad Bear refused; but his thirst betrayed him. He took a sip, then drained the cup. Three times more Arekor held the full cup out. When he had drunk the last, Mad Bear said again, “Why do you taunt me?”

“No, Mad Bear. I have not come to taunt you. I have come from the chief of the Ironshirts, and what I speak you may hear without dishonor.”

“I do not believe you.”

“You will,” Arekor said. “For I will cut you free and give you a warrior’s knife, which you may turn on yourself if you believe you have been dishonored. It may even be that an Ironshirt warrior will fight you in a single combat, risking his life to let you end yours with honor. But first you must promise to hear me out, and not to attack me.”

“Swear this is true!”

The priest swore such oaths that even Mad Bear was impressed. Not even a Green Lands priest who had submitted himself to slavery among the Red Rocks would use such oaths to strengthen a lie to a warrior of the Horse People—or if he could, then nothing among gods or men was as it had been, and Mad Bear could do what pleased him.

“What I will say can bring good to the Horse People,” Arekor said.

“If this could be so—Give me the knife.”

“Swear first.”

Mad Bear swore by the Father and the Warrior. Arekor drew a short blade of Ironshirt make, and cut Mad Bear’s bonds. Then he gave him the knife.

Mad Bear turned it over and over in his hands. The priest had spoken the truth—“Are there women or wizards within hearing of us?”

“I swear there are neither,” Arekor said. “Only warriors.”

Mad Bear tested the blade with his thumb. It was sharp, of good workmanship, quite good enough. No one would ever take that blade while he lived. “Now I will listen to your dream of bringing good to the Horse People.”

The priest began to speak.

* * *

Ganton reached for another sausage and felt the
corona aurea
begin to slip. He pushed it back into place with one hand and grabbed a sausage with the other. He could not remember ever having been so hungry.

The food was simple, but there was plenty of it. Once again he could admire Roman organization. The battle was done, and there were a myriad of details to attend to; but Roman optios saw to all that. For once the commanders could rest, with only the most important decisions brought to the command post.

The headquarters staff had set out a table overflowing with sausage and bread and jerked meat, and nearby a kettle of hot soup was just coming to the boil. There were also flagons of wine, well watered but of good flavor. The Romans hadn’t asked if he wanted his wine watered; they had simply assumed that no commander on a battlefield would drink anything else. It was something to remember . . .

And not far away was the luxury of all luxuries: an optio supervised as Titus Frugi’s servants erected a tent that would contain a canvas bath! Soon there would be hot water—

Perhaps, he thought, perhaps I will be able to clean my head without shaving it. He grinned to himself at the thought, trying to imagine what Octavia would say if he came to their wedding night as crop-haired as a slave.

That wedding would not be long coming. Then, married to Caesar’s granddaughter, and proclaimed a leader of Romans—He could still feel the thrill of that moment.
Imperator!
The Romans had hailed him, soldiers and officers alike, and he could now appear before a Roman army wearing the
corona aurea
. And the army of Drantos was now loyal, the strength of the throne—With Octavia as his wife—what might not be accomplished?

PART SEVEN

SKY GOD

34

The moving light circled.

“That is it?” Tylara raised one hand and pointed. With the other she tightly held Rick’s arm.

Rick nodded as he watched the ship hover above the bare hilltop. It was all too easy to remember the first time he’d seen one of the alien craft. That had been ten light years away, in Africa, and he hadn’t believed in flying saucers.

This time, I
know
what it is, he thought. Does that make it easier? There are no Cubans coming to kill me. But I don’t know who—or what—will be aboard, no more than I did then.

The instructions had been clear. Bring a work crew, all the
surinomaz
harvested so far, and no heavy weapons. The voice on the transceiver had been cold and mechanical, and had not encouraged conversation.

The moving lights came down with a rush. From the foot of the hill came a wail of terror and shouts that might have been prayers, then Elliot’s curses. The ship settled to the hilltop. There was a long silence, broken only by a whine from somewhere within the craft.

“Can they see us without light?” Tylara asked in a whisper.

“Aye. And hear us as well.”

She tightened her grip on his arm. “Will we see them?”

She’s bearing up better than I did, Rick thought. “I don’t know,” Rick answered. “Nor do I know if this group will be human or
Shalnuksi
.”

He hadn’t wanted to bring her, but she’d been persuasive. If the purpose was to convince the
shalnuksis
that Armagh was the principal seat of Rick’s holdings, they would expect his wife to be there; and if at the castle, then why not to meet the ship when it landed? “Would they think me afraid?” she asked. “Or that you would marry one who feared them?”

He’d had no answer to that. Perhaps it would help if she came. Perhaps not. He had no way of knowing how much they could find out from orbit. Certainly Armagh
appeared
to be an important place. At the moment the castle was crammed from rafters to cellars with household goods, supplies, animals, and people. There were courtiers and cooks, administrators and acolytes, scribes and scullerymaids, judges, journeymen, apprentices, and masters of nearly every trade; even two dozen of the Children of Vothan in training for domestic service, and several of their teachers.

There was nothing better than oil lamps and bonfires for light, but even so, Armagh ought to be visible from orbit. Every room and courtyard blazed as they celebrated the news of the great victory. The Westmen were driven from the land, and even now the Alliance army was escorting them northwards, out of Drantos, into the wild lands to the northwest, lands nominally part of Drantos but long ago claimed by Margilos on the one hand and the Five Kingdoms on the other. Let the High Rexja have both the disputed lands and the Westmen. Perhaps it would keep him too busy to annoy Drantos.

One problem down, another to go. The flying saucer didn’t look like it was doing anything. Gingerly Rick detached Tylara’s hand from his arm and walked toward the craft. “Hi!” he called. “Hello, the ship.”

It could have been the ship that brought him to Tran. Certainly it was more like that than like the sleek craft that had rescued the mercenaries from their African hilltop. Even in the dim light of the Demon Star he could see that the hull showed stains, patches, and dents. There were bulges and flutings in random places on its surface. Les had once told them the ship that brought them to Tran was chartered; perhaps this one was also, or it might have been the same ship.

The whine muted and died, and the ship settled more heavily on its large circular landing feet. There were small crackling noises as it crushed the fragrant Tran shrubbery. A small square opened near the saucer’s top, and the hillside was bathed in yellow light. Rick moved closer, carefully keeping his hands away from the .45 in its shoulder holster.

A rectangular hatchway opened into a gangway. The inside of the ship was bright with the yellow light the
Shalnuksis
seemed to favor. Rick could see crates and packages, a lot of them, many painted olive drab.

“Good evening, Captain Galloway.” The voice boomed out unexpectedly, startling Rick. It was the same cold, impersonal voice he’d heard on the transceiver. It sounded like a recording, or perhaps like something synthesized on a computer. Its tones told him nothing about the person—or being—who spoke.