Clayton Newell looked at the others, then around the room. He hesitated for a long moment before he spoke. “You speak for both Falkenberg and the Dual Monarchy.” Whitlock nodded. “Which means you speak for Lermontov and the Grants, even if you do not acknowledge that.”
“Oh, I reckon I can say I do,” Whitlock said. “Long as it’s strictly among us friends. Blaines too, for that matter. But you will understand, Captain, what with the communications difficulties, sometimes we don’t have orders, but we still got to act.”
“And you have that authority?”
“We really are layin’ all our cards on the table,” Whitlock said. “Well, it’s this way. Colonel Falkenberg values King Alexander and Prince Lysander a lot, and of course anything purely havin’ to do with Sparta is goin’ to be decided by the Spartans. Anything else is sort of up to me, and Lieutenant Colonels Slater and Owensford, acting collectively.”
Newell sat in an overstuffed leather chair. “And you see no conflict of interest? Between Lermontov’s interest and Sparta’s?” He looked to Forrest and Nosov. “Nor do you?”
Samuel Forrest shook his head. “Not really. You have to be aware that King Alexander has been a Lermontov ally for a long time. Right now, under the CoDominium Treaty, Sparta isn’t even supposed to have a foreign policy, let alone a navy, so how can there be a conflict over external matters? But the simple answer is that King Alexander and Prince Lysander are aware of the situation, and they’ve left Dr. Whitlock to negotiate for them, so they must not see much conflict.”
Newell stared at each one in turn for a long time, then contemplated his still full glass. Finally he said, “Clearly Boris is convinced that your Prince Lysander, and all of you, may all be trusted.” He spoke slowly and carefully, measuring every word. “I will confess, what we hear from Earth is alarming, and little would surprise me. War, a coup by Admiral Lermontov, perhaps more likely a coup against the Grand Admiral. No one knows what to expect.” He shrugged. “Look, I find your offers attractive, I’d be a fool not to. But what happens if you don’t win? Suppose Boris and I help you, and you lose? We’d be gambling everything.”
“We are now,” Hal Slater said carefully. “We don’t intend to lose.”
“No one does,” Newell said. “But it’s not entirely in your power. You must know what you’re up against. Bronson’s got money, power, ambition. He has his own shipping line, and enough money to arm those ships. You could win your war, and still find this planet destroyed, with no CoDominium force to avenge you.”
“Which is why we need a fleet,” Samuel Forrest said. “It need not be a large fleet, just enough to take on armed merchant men. A squadron would do. I believe there is a squadron here, now.” He raised his glass. “To Sparta.”
Anatoly Nosov stood and held out his glass for a refill. “Let us be specific. You have four warships here. One is frigate Volga, Commander Vadim Dzirkals, very much a Lermontov supporter. One is cruiser Vera Cruz, your own, and we presume your officers will follow as you lead. One is frigate Kirov; I do not know Commander Chornovil, but I understand he is intelligent, and certainly he was promoted by Lermontov. More to the point, four of his bridge officers formerly served with me in Moscva. Fourth is destroyer Aegir, with American commander. I believe Captain Forrest knows him—”
“Harry Clarkson,” Forrest said. “A Townsend man, but I think most of his wardroom has other sentiments.”
“A fleet,” Karantov said. “Perhaps sufficient no matter what Bronson sends.”
“You’re suggesting mutiny,” Newell said. His eyes darted around the room.
“I suggest nothing,” Nosov said. “But it is very much possible that soon there is no CoDominium, and it is to advantage of us all that we consider possibilities.” He raised his glass. “To Sparta.”
“If there is no CoDominium, those with control of naval power will have great power indeed,” Newell mused. “Much could be done with a squadron of warships. Not just here.”
“Well, I suppose,” Dr. Whitlock said. “But then there’s this. One time, Napoleon was admirin’ his troops on parade. ‘See the bayonets of my Guards, how they gleam,’ he said. And Talleyrand said, ‘You can do anything with a bayonet, Sire, except sit on it.’ I’d think the same thing might apply to your warships, Captain. You can blow hell out of a planet, but where you goin’ to set down? You want to face the kind of war the Spartans have been fighting? Spend your lives wondering when someone’s going to kill your family? Long time ago, a man named Ortega y Gasset pointed out, rulin’s not so much a matter of an iron fist as it is of a firm seat.” He raised his glass. “To Sparta.”
“I will drink to Sparta,” Newell said. “And perhaps when Spartans have achieved that firm seat, we will continue this discussion. Until then—” He raised his glass. “To Sparta.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
It will be agreed that the aim of strategy is to fulfill the objectives laid down by policy, making the best use of the resources available. Now the objective may be offensive in nature (e.g,. conquest or the imposition of severe terms), it may be defensive (e.g., the protection of certain areas or interests) or it may merely be the maintenance of the political status quo. It is therefore obvious straight away that formulae such as that attributed to Clausewitz, ‘decision as a result of victory in battle,’ are not applicable to all types of objective. There is only one general rule applicable to all: disregard the method by which the decision is to be reached and consider only the outcome which it is desired to achieve. The outcome desired is to force the enemy to accept the terms we wish to impose on him. In this dialectic of wills a decision is achieved when a certain psychological effect has been produced on the enemy: when he becomes convinced that it is useless to start or alternatively to continue the struggle.
—Général D’Armée André Beaufre,
An Introduction to Strategy, 1965
* * *
From this time Cataline turned his back on politics because it involved envy and strife and was not the speediest and most effective means for attaining absolute power. He obtained quantities of money from women who hoped their husbands would be killed in a revolution, conspired with a number of senators and knights, and collected plebeians, foreigners, and slaves. Lesser leaders of the conspiracy were Cornelius Lentulus and Cethegus, then praetors. To the Sullans up and down Italy who had squandered their profits and were eager for similar doings he sent messengers, Gaius Mallius to Faesulae in Etruria and others to Picenum and Apulia, and these quietly enrolled an army for him. These facts were still secret when they were communicated to Cicero by Fulvia, a woman of position . . .
—Moses Hadas, A History of Rome
* * *
The Senate Chamber was unusually quiet. High marble walls, a dais for the speaker, benches encircling it. The Chamber had been designed as a romanticized version of the best description they had of the place of government of ancient Sparta.
Two thrones, one to either side of the rostrum, stood empty as the Senators took their places around the room. There was an electric air, which made Senator Dion Croser nervous. What did they plan?
There was a thundering knock at the door. The Sergeant at Arms opened it, looked out, and closed the door again. “My Lord Speaker, the Kings ask admission.”
The Speaker’s name was Loren Scaevoli, a dry stick of a man nearing his hundredth year and looking it even with regenn; he had been the youngest of the Founders. His voice had an unusual inflection to it this day, almost of glee. “Senators, the Kings ask admission to our chamber. What say you?”
“Aye and welcome!” a hundred voices shouted.
“Three cheers for His Majesty Alexander I!”
The cry ran through the chamber, and the crashing hurrah echoed from the high marble walls of the big semicircular room. One hundred twenty-three Senators lined the benches that encircled the dais; one hundred seventeen cheered. Dion Croser stood politely with his handful of supporters, waiting for the sound to die.
“Three cheers for King David!” If there was any less enthusiasm it was hard to notice, but when someone shouted “And for Prince Lysander!” there was no mistaking the renewed enthusiasm.
“It is the will of the Senate that the Kings be admitted,” Scaevoli said formally. The Sergeant opened the door to allow them in, then closed it to exclude the Life Guards. By tradition the Kings of Sparta were guarded only by Senators when they entered the Senate chamber, and they entered only by permission, not as a matter of right.