“Yes.” A gillie brought goblets of wine, and the Roman officer drank thirstily. “Thank you,” he said to Rick.
Rick studied the Roman officer. “Head bloody but unbowed,” he thought. A proud man holding his head up after defeat. But he knows he’s beaten, and maybe he’s sensible.
“You can prevent a great slaughter,” Rick said. “We have come for grain and loot. Now that we’ve beaten your legion, there is nothing to prevent us from sacking the town of Sentinius. I would rather not do that. If you will arrange for the wealth of the town and the contents of the granaries to be loaded on wagons and brought to me, only officers to inspect the granary will enter the city. If you do not, we will take the town by storm, and there will be no controlling the men and the camp followers.”
The Roman’s eyes narrowed. “You ask for tribute from Caesar?”
Damn. Of course he’ll see it that way. “No. I demand what is mine by conquest. I will have all of the grain and, much of the wealth. That is certain. The only uncertainty is whether or not the people of Sentinius and the city itself will survive the experience. Do you truly believe the citizens can oppose me now that their legion is destroyed?”
The Roman officer pursed his lips in thought. He took a deep breath and said, “No. The citizens would be killed to no purpose. How am I to arrange this?”
“You will be free to go. My cavalry will watch the city gates. If by sunset tomorrow there are no wagons of grain, then we will do as we will with Sentinius.” Rick paused. Might as well sweeten the pot. “In addition, I will release your soldiers and whatever equipment we cannot carry with us the day we cross Caesar’s borders to return to our mountains.” Rick shrugged. “What use are they to me? We are not foolish enough to wait for a ransom which would likely be escorted by five legions.”
Marselius seemed puzzled. “Now I am certain that you are not a barbarian,” he said. “Who are you?”
“That is no concern of yours.”
“Perhaps not. What assurance have I that you will not sack the city no matter what we do?”
“You have the word of a Tamaerthon lord,” Tylara said coldly.
“I have seen you shouting at your officers to make them spare captives,” Marselius said. “You are no barbarian.” He seemed to take comfort from that. “Very well, I agree. But may I ask, why this concern with grain? In the past, the hill tribes have raided for other wealth—”
“I remind you that I also demand some of the more usual loot,” Rick said. “Small valuables. Trinkets. Goblets. Cloak pins and ornaments. Jewelry. I do not doubt that your citizens will keep their most valuable objects, but make certain, that they send out enough gaudy luxuries to please my clansmen. As to why we are concerned with grain, if you care to return—as my guest—after the loot is transferred, I will tell you. It is a story worth knowing.”
The last of the wagons rolled westward. They were an impressive sight; over a thousand wagons loaded with wheat and barley and oats and a grain that Rick had never seen before which grew on a plant resembling a giant sunflower, and produced a seed that more resembled rice than anything else. Other wagons were loaded with onions, spinach and other vegetables needed for winter nutrition. Fifty were loaded with heavy valuables—furniture and bolts of cloth and iron implements. The lightweight loot—rings and ornaments and personal arms—had been distributed to the army. Interspersed with the wagons were flocks and herds driven by camp followers and liberated slaves.
An impressive sight. Drumold had never seen its like. Everyone was certain there was food enough for all, enough to last through two winters— And they were utterly wrong.
Columns of pikemen and archers guarded the wagon train, and the light cavalry screens were well out to the flanks and forward to warn of any Roman attempt to recapture the loot of Sentinius. Rick took a position among Mason’s mounted archers in the rear guard.
He shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, not caring for the weight of the Roman mail he wore. It itched. He’d rather do without armor, but that wasn’t possible. He needed the armor and a personal bodyguard of freedmen loyal to no clan chief—and Mason at his back whenever possible. That wasn’t because he was worried about the enemy; the problem was that he might be assassinated by his own officers.
The army was loyal enough. He’d won a complete victory with trivial casualties: a score of pikemen killed when the Romans managed to close with the first rank, another score of archers and pikemen cut down in the desperate fighting that closed the day, and nearly thirty heavy cavalrymen who hadn’t sense enough to let the pikemen and archers do the work and had to go riding in to fight in personal combat with the defeated Roman heavies. Most of the armored men were related, and the survivors blamed Rick for their losses; if he had led the armored charge himself instead of riding to bring the pikemen in, they would not have lost sons and brothers .
They also resented losing the opportunity to sack a Roman city.
“Let them,” he’d told Tylara and Drumold. “If we turn those lads loose in Sentinius, they won’t be fit to fight for a ten-day. We’d be helpless against any kind of Roman attack. Don’t forget that a full thousand Romans got away—more than enough to kill us all if we scatter. I would rather stay in a strong position and let the Romans bring the loot to us.”
“We have defeated the Roman legion,” Balquhain said. “They can bring in no other for a ten-day. The chiefs know this, and they say that we can use that time to loot the province. There would be much wealth.”
“To what purpose?” Rick demanded. “We have taken more grain and loot than we have wagons to carry it in. It will take a ten-day and more to transport what we have back to the passes, and we will be fortunate to get it all into the Garioch before the snows begin. Seizing more wouldn’t help us, only harm the Romans—and when the Demon Sun is closest, we may have need of them as friends.”
“Caesar will never befriend us,” Drumold said.
“Perhaps not, but only a fool gives his enemies reason to hate him, and I am no fool.”
“No one says you are,” Balquhain protested.
“Then let them do this my way, as they have sworn.” And let me go back to the hills without a useless battle. I don’t suppose it’s possible to live the rest of my life without another fight like this. It takes a quart of wheat to feed a full-grown man for a day. The fifty thousand bushels of wheat we’ve taken can’t possibly last us two winters. But there’s no more to do this year, and for that I’m grateful. Glory’s a heady drink, but the bar bill’s damned high.
The chiefs had accepted the decision, but they had another complaint, too. Rick had distributed the loot among the soldiers rather than giving it to the chiefs to parcel out. They felt he was trying to undermine their authority.
They were right. He’d bought the loyalty of the common soldiers and noncoms, but incurred the hatred of many of the officers. The result was that he had to wear armor and endure the itch. Considering what he’d got for it, Rick thought the price worth paying.
The cavalry escorted the Roman prefect into the camp on the third night of the march. Freshly shaved and in clean clothing, he looked very different from the last time Rick had seen him—but he’d wisely refrained from wearing jewelry. His sword had been bound into its scabbard so that it couldn’t be drawn, but they had let him keep it.
“I had not thought to see you again,” Rick said. “I had even thought those troops you’ve kept ten miles south of me might be planning an attack.”
“If your information is that good, you also know I have fewer than two thousand men,” Marselius said. “I have come to see if you will honor your word and release my legionaries. Also I wished to hear this curious story you said it would be worth much to know.”
“Then you will not be disappointed,” Rick said. “But will Caesar not have your head? Surely he will say you have not done all you could to punish us for invading his realm.”
“Caesar will have my head no matter what I do,” Marselius said. “He will not deal lightly with a prefect who allowed barbarians —your pardon, but that is what he will consider you—to escape unharmed with the loot of a Roman city.” He shrugged and lifted a goblet of wine in salute. “But Rome will not be well served by wasting the balance of my troops. Your cavalry scouts would give ample warning of my approach, and if we could not face your longbows and longer spears before, how can we now? I have never seen weapons like those spears. You call them pikes?”