“Caradoc!” Rick shouted. “Get me messengers to ride to Marselius. Win this battle and by Yatar we’ve won the whole bloody war!”
“It was you who said it would be disaster,” Bishop Polycarp reminded him.
And it damned well is, too, Titus Frugi thought. But how can I avoid a battle? I can’t even disengage! By now Marselius knows every formation I have, how many, where they are— Is he smart enough to divine which troops I can trust and which I can’t? Which I can allow to wander through the trees, and which must stay under the eyes of their centurions? (And one legion whose centurions weren’t trustworthy; that whole legion had to be watched by another.)
“What would you have me do, Your Grace?”
Polycarp shook his head slowly. “Avoid slaughter. If you must fight—fight barbarians. Do not let Roman armies kill each other while the heathens remain!”
Good advise, old man. But I’ve fought those barbarians. You haven’t. Still, I suppose there’s nothing for it.
It had looked so simple. Until that thing rose in the sky. And now—now everything he did would be reported to Marselius. While he had no information at all on where his enemies marched,
Disaster. Strange how small a thing can bring disaster. And how little you expect it.
Presently the enemy strategy was clear. Marselius’s right wing advanced, slowly, through the crop-lands and orchards, while the barbarian left wing stayed behind. With his army split by the ridge, Frugi couldn’t simply sweep Marselius from the field; and how could he break past the barbarians and fall on Marselius from behind now that his ambush was discovered?
“They are only foot soldiers,” one of the legates said. “Barbarians at that. How can they withstand a charge of legionary horse?”
“I have described Sentinius to you,” Frugi said wearily. “And then they had no balloon.” The evil thing hung in the sky directly to the west. It must somehow communicate with the ground, because Marselius deployed against the legion Frugi had hidden in the orchards; and when the legion withdrew, Marselius closed his ranks again.
“It is held to the ground by that rope,” the frumentarius said. “Cut the rope and it must drift free. This has happened before.”
“How do you know this?”
“We heard this from spies,” the intelligence officer said. “But we did not believe them.”
“So.” Frugi pointed to where the end of the balloon’s tether lay. “We need go only there—”
“Where there are few barbarians,” the legate said.
That was true enough. There were no more than a hundred to guard the balloon’s tether. But— “Few indeed,” Frugi said. “Now consider this. Their whole formation is like a funnel, with only emptiness at the bottom. With nothing where they keep their balloon. As if they cannot believe we know it to be vulnerable. Or that we do not know its value. Tell me, Legate: would Caius Marius Marselius know the value of a balloon?”
“He would, Proconsul.”
“Then can we not assume that the barbarians who possess it must know?”
“We can—”
“Then we must assume they will protect it. With their star weapons, perhaps. With something. No. I will not send a legion down those lanes to chase a lure.” Frugi studied the battle ground again. “But—perhaps—”
“Yes, Proconsul?”
“Their left flank. Spearmen. Supported by archers, but the archers are further in. There is a gap between their spearmen and the woods. I would suppose their horse waits there, just beyond where we can see, hidden by those woods. But—their horse is no match for a legion; and we have horse archers in plenty. These barbarians have never seen our archery. Perhaps, Valerius, it is time they learned.”
“It will be my pleasure to teach them,” the legate said.
“Do so. Recall the Eleventh from hiding in the trees and remount them. Take them and the Eighth.
Deploy the Eighth against the barbarian cavalry which will surely be hidden on your right. Bring the Eleventh to archery range and shoot down those spearmen. Shoot enough and they will run. When you have broken through their line, ride behind the enemy. Ignore the balloon and whatever protects it. Sweep behind the barbarian force and fall upon Marselius in the center. As you do, I will send the other legions in a general charge. We will crush Marselius.”
His enthusiasm was infectious, and the legate was caught up with it. “Hail, Titus Frugi!” he shouted as he rode away. When he was gone, Frugi’s smile vanished. Go with God, Valerius, Frugi thought. As for me, I am afraid.
“I still think it’s stupid,” Art Mason said. “Hell, Cap’n let me go—”
“No. You and Elliot are needed here. Just see that Frugi doesn’t break through anywhere. And look out for the king.”
“Ye’re daft,” Drumold said. “But I hae long ceased to vex myself wi’ thoughts of controlling you. Still, what will you accomplish?”
“Possibly nothing,” Rick said. “But you exaggerate the danger. There is none to me, and little to anyone else. You do not have the game ‘chess’ here, do you?”
“Not by that name,” Drumold said.
“No matter. It is a war game. There are many ways to win, but only one way to win quickly without great slaughter. Let’s go.” Rick waved his group forward:
Reznick, Bisso, and two other mercs, plus a half dozen Guardsmen. The mercenaries wore kilts and bright tabards, and their battle rifles were wrapped in cloth bowcases. From a distance they looked like any Tamaerthan light cavalry. They rode southeast, toward Marselius’s legions. When they were close to the base of the ridge, they dismounted and turned the horses over to two Guardsmen. Rick led the others into the thin scrub that covered the ridge.
“Okay,” he said. “This is as good a place as any.”
The mercenaries shed their kilts and pulled on camouflage coveralls. The Guardsmen also abandoned bright colors and put on drab kilts and leather helmets. When they were dressed, Rick led them up the ridge.
Halfway up they paused in a wooded draw. Rick took out his binoculars, while Reznick shook out signal flags and waved them. Rick focussed in on the balloon, “Okay, they’ve seen us,” he said. He watched the flag man. “L-E-G-I-O-N-S A-T-T-A-C-K-I-N-G L-E-F-T W-I-N-G.’ Get the rest of that signal and acknowledge. I want a look over that way.”
He couldn’t see. The brush was too thick and the draw too deep. Then he heard distant thunder. The recoilless, and possibly grenades.
“Murphy says First Pikes are holding,” Reznick reported. “No change otherwise.”
“Nobody above us on the slopes?”
“Not until we reach the top.”
“Okay. ‘Let’s move.” They climbed up the draw.
When they were nearly at the top of the ridge, they took more signals from Murphy in the balloon. Rick nodded and waved Reznick forward.
Reznick screwed the sound suppressor on his 9mm Ingram submachine gun. He moved carefully up the draw, guided by Murphy’s directions, until he was near a small thicket. The Ingram made no more noise than the loud tearing of cloth as he fired an entire clip into the bushes. Then he reloaded and went to inspect his work.
After a few moments Rick heard a low whistle. He waved the others forward.
Twice more Reznick took the silenced Ingram forward. Then they were at the top of the ridge.
“Move!” Rick ordered. “Up. Go like hell!”
They dashed over onto the level ground on top. Rick was panting, and his legs felt like lead. My arse aches, too, he thought. Hell, a man with piles didn’t ought to be doing this! A Roman trooper stood just in front of him. Rick fired twice with his .45 and the Roman went down. Then there were two more Roman soldiers. One held his shield forward and raised his sword— Rick shot through the shield. Reznick fired from behind him and three more Romans went down. There were a dozen more dismounted Roman troopers. Reznick and Bisso fired at full automatic, short bursts, slow, methodical fire; the Romans collapsed in heaps. Then they faced five mounted Roman officers.
“Surrender!” Rick shouted. When one of the Romans wheeled, Rick shot his horse. The animal screamed in pain. “Kill the horses!” Rick shouted.
Bisso’s battle rifle thundered. Then it was joined by two more. As the horses began to buck and plunge, a Roman in a scarlet cape leaped free and drew his sword.
“Hail, Titus Frugi!” Rick called. “Why throw your life away to no purpose? I have come to speak with you.”
Frugi licked his lips and looked around. One of his officers was struggling to free himself from a fallen horse. Bishop Polycarp’s animal had not yet been killed; His Grace sat with his hands raised as if in blessing. His other three officers were taken, struck down and seized by these grim men; and his bodyguards lay in heaps.
“Set up over there,” Rick shouted. Bisso and the other two mercs laid out their battle rifles. “Anything comes over that lip, kill it.” He turned to the Roman commander. “Now, Proconsul, let us talk.”