“Who are you, barbarian?”
Hah, Rick thought. The way he asks that, it’s a good thing I came myself. “Rick Galloway, Colonel of Mercenaries, War Lord of Tamaerthon—and friend to Marselius Caesar, who sends you greetings. Only two days ago I heard Marselius himself praise your courage and honor. And your good sense—however, you must not run away, Proconsul. And while I permit you to hold that sword for the moment, you must eventually put it down.”
“While I hold it—”
“While you hold it you can kill yourself,” Rick said.
“That, Titus Frugi, is forbidden,” Bishop Polycarp warned.
“My Lord Bishop,” Rick said. “I had hoped to include Your Grace in our meeting. Can you not prevail upon the Proconsul to lay down that sword?”
Titus Frugi looked around helplessly. His officers were taken or dead. The strangers looked perfectly capable of dealing with any rescue attempt—not that there was any sizable force nearby anyway. He stood shaking with rage and frustration, then threw down the weapon with a curse. “Speak, barbarian,” he said. “I have little choice but to listen.”
17
“Here they come,” Art Mason raised his rifle. The two legions of cataphracti moved in formation, certain of themselves, riding proudly. The lead formation deployed, ready to ride through the chivalry of Tamaerthon to Drumold’s banner lifted high above them.
The Roman trumpets sounded. Lances came down in unison. The Romans moved forward. At a walk. A trot— “Now,” Mason said.
The light machine gun opened up in sharp, staccato bursts. Then the recoilless. The center of the Roman line went down; the troopers behind crashed into them, and the orderly line dissolved into confusion. The rear ranks crowded against each other.
“Fire in the hole!” Elliot shouted. The recoilless blasted again. More Romans fell. Their charge was broken before it had ever begun.
Tamaerthan and Drantos horse alike surged forward into the confusion. The Roman forces were bunched together, so that only the outer troops could use their weapons. The Allied cavalry, heavy and light alike, could dart in, strike, and dash back to charge again.
The other Roman legion reined in about a hundred yards from the pikemen and took out their bows.
Mason turned to his trumpeter and nodded. Shrill notes sounded, and two hundred Tamaerthan long-bowmen ran out of the trees where they’d hidden.
“Let the grey gulls fly!” Caradoc ordered. The first flight of arrows fell upon the Romans from behind.
The trumpets sounded again, followed by the thutter of drums and the squeal of pipes. First Pike Regiment surged forward at double time. They flowed across the ground toward the Romans.
Mason dismounted and opened the bipod of his H&K battle rifle. He lay on the ground and fired randomly into the Roman formation until the pikemen closed. The Romans found themselves in a desperate engagement.
“I had not known,” Titus Frugi said. He raised Rick’s binoculars again and stared at the scene below, then cursed. “Who ever saw foot soldiers attack cavalry?” It was an event totally outside his experience; the surprise was as complete as if the pikemen had risen into the air.
First the star weapons. The Eighth legion’s charge was thoroughly broken before they ever engaged the enemy. Now they were trapped, forced back against the Eleventh which was in desperate straits, archers behind it and those spearmen in front. Could Valerius withdraw? Would he? He searched for a sign of his subordinate, hardly able to hold the binoculars still. What other marvels did these starmen have?
“You see,” Rick said gently. “Two legions could not break my pikes. Not when they have the aid of star weapons. As you must know.” He waved to indicate the dead and dying heaped around them. “Your bodyguards fared no better. What use is this slaughter? How will Rome survive if all her soldiers are dead?”
“And you?” Polycarp asked. “What do you gain from this?”
“I am a friend of Marselius Caesar,” Rick said. “When Rome’s borders are safely held by my friends, Tamaerthon and Drantos are safe. These are perilous times, Your Grace. More perilous than even you can know. We all need friends.”
“Indeed.”
“Even Rome,” Rick said. “Perhaps Rome most of all.”
On the field below the slaughter continued. Now the Romans were trying to withdraw, as the deadly Tamaerthan gulls flew again and again.
“Two legions,” Bishop Polycarp said. “Two legions destroyed, and you have not yet met Marselius.”
Not destroyed. Not yet. Disorganized, useless as fighting instruments until reformed. Doomed, unless they withdrew. But not yet destroyed… “What would you have me do, Your Grace?” Titus Frugi asked.
“You yourself said it was disaster,” Polycarp said. He pointed to the balloon. “Will it not continue? Today your forces retreat with what Valerius can save. Tomorrow the barbarians advance. With that, watching, always watching. Wherever we go, it follows.” He shuddered. “And I say nothing of the fire and thunder weapons.”
“I ask again. What would you have me do, Your Grace?”
“End this madness.”
“How?”
“One of your trumpeters survives,” Rick said. “Sound the retreat.”
“So that your cavalry can pursue.”
“What of that?” Rick asked. “Will any be saved if they stand and fight? Where will Valerius take those legions?”
“Along the road, to hold the ford.”
“Then send one of these,” Rick said. He indicated the captured officers. “Have Valerius take his legions to the next crossroad and make camp. You and I will meanwhile go to speak with Marselius Caesar.” Suddenly Rick’s calm detachment snapped. “For God’s sake, stop this slaughter,” he shouted. “Haven’t we had enough?”
“More than enough,” Polycarp said. “More than enough.”
Titus Frugi ground his teeth together. Then, grimly, grudging every word, he spoke to his trumpeter. “Sound the general retreat,” he ordered.
“Forward, lads!” Drumold shouted. “Up the road! Forward!”
“For Drantos! Forward!”
The young king was right alongside the Tamaerthan leader. No way to stop them, Mason thought. It even makes sense. If we can get any sizable force around the ridge and behind the Roman main body, we’ve won the day. The same plan Titus Frugi had, only he couldn’t carry it off. As long as there’s no ambush.
Not sure we can do it. The Tamaerthan cavalry aren’t that good, and there aren’t that many of them, even with those Drantos troop& Either way, best send a couple of mercs to look out for Ganton— “Sir!” The young rider was nearly as out of breath as his horse. An acolyte of Yatar.
“Yes, lad?”
“Orders from the balloon. Halt at the ford. The Romans are going to surrender.”
So, Mason thought. Captain’s done it again. Now all I have to do is convince Drumold and the kid. He spurred his horse forward.
Drumold paced around and around the table in the largest room of the villa. “Och,” he said. “I canna say I care for the situation. The Romans have their forces intact. All their forces, and all Flaminius’s forces, While we are here, in their midst, without rations—”
“Which they’re sending—”
Drumold cut off Rick’s protest. “Which they say they are sending. But we have none yet. And I do not think they will let their troops—nor their horses!—starve to feed us.”
“Your fears are groundless,” Rick said. “They will send food. And why do you fear the Romans?”
“Iron,” Camithon said.
“Iron?” Drumold asked.
“Iron,” the Protector repeated. “Iron makes Rome what she is. They have much, we have little.”
“That’s a pretty sharp observation, Cap’n,” Elliot said. “Like those mills I’ve seen. They’ve got millponds behind dams, and overshot wheels with gear trains. They can run on less water than any mill I saw in Drantos.”
Or in Tamaerthon, Rick thought. Which means they can run during more of the year. “Iron mines and good mills—I suppose they use them to drive bellows?”
Elliot nodded. “Saw just that about five klicks from here. Regular foundry.”
“Which means when the Romans discover gunpowder—and they will—they’ll have the means to make guns. Lots of them,” Rick mused. One more headache. Add gunpowder and guns to Roman discipline and record-keeping and they’ll own this end of Tran.
Which might be no bad thing—although Drumold and Tylara weren’t likely to see it that way.
“If Tamaerthon is threatened, how long before Drantos falls?” Ganton asked.
Smart lad, Rich thought. Ganton seemed more sure of himself, now that he’d led troops in a battle. It hadn’t been much of a battle, nor had Ganton played a large part in it, but he’d been at the head of his Guards, right alongside Drumold and Balquhain.
“What should we do, then?” Rick demanded.
“What we should have done before,” Drumold said. “Take hostages. Think, lad. They have here the whole strength of Tamaerthon, and Wanax Ganton to boot. Surely Publius has thought of this. And ‘tis Publius who will remain, while Marselius marches on to Rome.
“Without us,” Camithon added. “Without us.”
“You yourself refused his offer to take us to Rome,” Rick protested.