Ha. The Roman right wing had got itself into formation. Rick used the binoculars to pick out their commander’s scarlet cloak and gold bracelets. The man stood in his stirrups to study the battle. It was obvious that he didn’t know where to charge. The best place—Third Pike’s flank—was covered by Rick’s heavy cavalrymen; hit Third and the Romans would expose their flank to a cavalry charge. Meanwhile the Roman commander was losing half his army down in the pocket.
Aha. He was going to have another go at the junction between Second Pikes and the archers linking First and Second. If they got through there, they’d cut Rick’s forces in two, and they’d have an excellent chance to crush his main force as well as relieve the pressure on the troops caught in the caldron. It was good tactics, but stupid. If they couldn’t break the archers with their first charge, why think they could do it now when the horses were getting winded?
But what else could he do? Pouring men into the caldron would be worse than useless. What would I do if— “We stand like cowards!” Dughuilas, chief of the largest of the subclans, drew his sword. “I will not have it said that I watched this battle without taking part.”
Oh, God damn it. That’s all I need. “Hold!” Rick shouted. Half the cavalrymen had drawn weapons, and even Drumold was looking anxious. “We protect our men here. If we leave this place, the Romans will strike—”
No good. They weren’t listening. Rick drew his Mark IV .45 automatic and aimed at just past Dughuilas’ left ear. He fired.
The clan leader winced. At four feet, the muzzle blast would be enough to take off hide. “Another step forward and I strike you from the saddle,” Rick said. “You and any others who desert.”
“Desert? We want to fight!” someone shouted.
“You’ll get the chance to fight. Hah! They’re going to try it.” He pointed. The Roman line swept forward again, this time in a thick column, aimed like an arrow between First and Second Pikes.
Again three flights of arrows struck among them before they could reach the stakes. This time they pressed forward, heedless of losses, walking the horses into the staked area now hastily abandoned by the archers— It was the last of the Roman reserve. Rick spurred forward, riding hard toward the First Pike regiment. He had no thought that the others would follow him, and they didn’t; they mad& straight for the Romans. Well, that would be all right now. The important thing was to get First Pikes to face right oblique rear and charge. They’d finish the Romans a lot more thoroughly than these ironheads.
But at least the chiefs would get a chance to fight.
They do, I don’t, Rick thought. Not that I particularly want to. But this battle’s all over except the cleaning up, and I haven’t fired a shot.
Then he grinned when he remembered that he had fired exactly once.
4
The battle was ended. Wherever Rick went, the men raised cheers. Tamaerthon casualties were light, and the Romans were totally defeated. The triumph was complete.
But then he felt the elation drain away with the adrenaline that had sustained him. In the military history books, the battle ends with the victory. The chesspieces are swept into the box, and all is quiet.
But there was no quiet. There were the screams of pain, from horses and men, mingled with the shouts of triumph and joy from the victors. An archer sat stupidly as he watched the blood flow from an arm severed above the elbow. A Roman warrior writhed in pain as pikemen stripped off his armor and cursed him for bleeding on their loot. And everywhere the horses and centaurs screamed and shied away from blood.
The centaurs were the worst. Worse, somehow, than the dying humans, far worse than the horses. The beasts tried to use their ill-developed hands to pluck out arrows or stop the flow of blood. They were not intelligent enough to understand what had happened (in a million years, would they have evolved good hands and high intelligence?), but they were sentient enough to be aware. Like dogs, they howled and whimpered and begged their human masters for help that couldn’t be given. Thank God, Rick thought; thank God the Romans used few of them.
And thank God this is done. With luck we won’t have to do it again. I can be through with war. The battles in Africa weren’t so bad. The helicopters came and took the wounded away. You didn’t have to look at what you’d done.
He had no more time to brood. There were a million details to attend to at once. Stop the slaughter and let the Romans surrender: the aristocratic airs of Rick’s heavy cavalrymen helped there. It was beneath their dignity to kill an enemy who couldn’t defend himself. Some of them were even intelligent enough to realize that if your enemies thought they’d be killed anyway, they’d fight on after the battle was lost.
Slaves directed by Mason and his MPs stripped the dead and disarmed the captured. That couldn’t be trusted to the clan warriors. And Rick had to convince the chiefs, and they had to convince the archers and pikemen, that the loot would be divided fairly. The idea that a battle was won by all and all should share in the spoils was new to the hillmen.
Cavalry screens had to be sent to keep contact with the Romans who had escaped and to watch for any new Roman units. Arrows had to be recovered from the battlefield and distributed. Midwives and priests to examine the wounded. Prisoners with deep punctures in chest or abdomen to be killed mercifully—there wasn’t anything else you could do for them. Other kinds of wounds to be cauterized, or washed and bound up —thank God they hadn’t come up with the insane theory of bleeding a wounded man!
And that’s something I can do now, Rick thought. I can teach medical science. I don’t know much, but I can teach the germ theory of disease, and antiseptic practices, and get some of the acolytes interested in anatomy and dissection. But how do we develop penicillin? Maybe we can’t. Sulfa drugs? I don’t know anything about them, either. No technology. No chemistry theory, no experimentalists, no scientific method. No surgeons, and I don’t know enough, but I can make a start. I can teach them how to learn, and maybe one day a perforated gut won’t be a death sentence.
Grooms and camp followers had to be sent to collect the captured horses. Let the centaurs go— those not mortally wounded. The hill clans weren’t used to them and wouldn’t keep them. Send more MPs to see that no one stole horses or ran away with loot. And total up the butcher’s bill.
Medieval armies left that to heralds. After Agincourt the French heralds had inspected the battlefield and worked with the English heralds to collect the names of the dead and captured. That useful organization hadn’t developed on Tran. Rick had tried to foresee the problems of victory and organize for them, but even so he had to be everywhere at once.
And everywhere he went, men stopped what they were doing to cheer him. He could feel pride in that. He’d won the battle, and it was worth winning. Without the grain, the hill tribes were doomed. And the cheers were important, too, if he were to have any control over them. Men want to cheer a commander who wins victories for them. But he wished they’d get on with the work and let him hide in the villa. It was a splendid victory, but he didn’t want to see the battlefield any longer.
Tylara came into the villa leading a prisoner. “I have found the Roman commander,” she said.
He’d been stripped of his armor and gold bracelets, but she’d let him keep his red cloak. Even with that, it was difficult for Rick to recognize him as the haughty officer he’d seen organizing the final charge.
Rick invited him to sit and sent for wine. The Roman seemed surprised. He studied Rick’s face carefully and listened to his speech, then shook his head. “You are no Roman.”
“Of course not,” Rick said.
“I had thought these bar—these hillmen must have been led by an officer trained by Rome.”
Rick smiled faintly. In a way, that was true, but hardly the way this man thought. “Lord Rick Galloway, war chief of the hosts of Tamaerthon,” Rick said. Pretentious, he thought. Pretentious, but necessary. Perhaps he could use this man. Words cost very little. “I have long admired Roman ways,” Rick said. “Your men fought well, as did you.”
“Ah. I am Caius Marius Marselius, Prefect of the Western Marches.”
“Prefect. In the Rome I knew, a prefect was both military and civil governor. Is that your office?”