Lord of Janissaries (53 page)

They had also begun with three cohorts of
cohortes equitatae
, a mixed force of two light-armed infantrymen for each light cavalryman. The infantrymen ran alongside the cavalry, supporting themselves by holding the horse’s mane so that they could keep up. An excellent idea in theory; Rick wondered how well trained they were. However good, there were only two cohorts of those now; the third was left to guard the crossing of the River Pydnae.

The whole Roman army wasn’t much larger than Rick’s force; while Flaminius was said to have five legions, three of them veterans, as well as numerous militia and auxiliaries.

“My lord.”

Rick looked up to see one of his cavalry officers. “Yes?”

“Five stadia ahead, Lord. There is a villa. It will not open its gates to us.”

Rick frowned. “Yes?”

“My Lord, Balquhain wished to batter down the gates, but Lord Drumold sent me to find you. Lord, the villa is defended only by women and loyal slaves. Balquhain told them to surrender or they would be given to the soldiers. They slammed the gates in his face. Then Lords Drumold and Caradoc came.”

“I see. Go and tell Drumold I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He looked back down the road. Art Mason and Jamiy were close behind. Jamiy’s arm was bound in a tight sling against his chest. Wearily Rick waved them forward and spurred his horse to a fast trot. The result was agony.

And I can’t tell anyone what my problem is. . . .

* * *

“Surrender in the name of Marselius Caesar,” Rick shouted.

“My lady says that she will never open her gates to barbarians.”

Was that an intentional pun? The double meaning was obvious, but it certainly wasn’t intended to be humorous. And undoubtedly it expressed the deepest fears of the matron who guarded that villa.

“We need Tylara here,” Rick said.

Drumold nodded. “Aye. You see now why I sent for you.”

“Yes. There’s little honor in victory over women. But a damn good chance of an incident worth more to Flaminius than a new legion.”

“So I have told my son,” Drumold muttered.

Balquhain bowed his head. “Aye. I see that now. I was a fool.”

First damn sign of wisdom I’ve seen from you, Rick thought. But no time for that now. “Mason, bring up the one-oh-six.”

“You have a plan?” Balquhain asked.

“Yes. You’re part of it.” Part of it now, anyway. “Listen . . .”

“Fire in the hole!” Reznick shouted. The one-oh-six recoilless blasted fire; the shell smashed against the stout gates of the villa.

The instant the larger weapon fired, Rick and Mason fired concussion grenades from the grenade launchers on their H&K rifles. The grenades went over the wall to explode inside the courtyard beyond.

At that same moment, Balquhain, Caradoc, and ten other picked guardsmen rode to the gate. They flung themselves off their mounts. The gates sagged on their hinges; four men hit them at once, and the topmost hinge of one gave way. They scrambled into the villa.

Rick rode up behind them, and painfully climbed inside the ruined gate. “My ladies!” he shouted. “You see we have broached your defense. Yet only officers stand in your courtyard. My army stays outside. You will not be harmed. Come out, in the name of Marselius Caesar—”

Caradoc and two guardsmen brought over prisoners from the outer wall; two young men, obviously slaves, and another, no more than ten. The boy struggled, but could not move in Caradoc’s grip.

The villa door opened, and a woman about thirty-five ran out. “Rutillius!” she screamed.

Rick nodded in satisfaction. That’s one victory I can be proud of. Why can’t they all be like that?

* * *

It was late in the day, and Rick made camp at the villa. Only his officers were permitted inside; and before they entered, Rick asked formal permission from the mistress of the household.

“You will be paid for what we consume,” Rick told her. “We are allies to a lawful Caesar, not conquerors.”

She shrugged and gave a bitter laugh. “There’s little enough to consume.”

Her name was Aemelia, and her husband, Marcus Trebius, was an officer in Flaminius’ army. She didn’t know if he was alive or dead; but three days before, Titus Frugi’s soldiers had stripped her villa of every able-bodied slave and freedman. They had also taken nearly all her food, and burned what was left.

“You seem to bear little love for Flaminius,” Rick said.

“I have little.”

“Then why did you not surrender to Marselius?”

“You are not Marselius,” she said.

“Ah. My barbarians—”

She blushed. “We were told—told that it would be far better to fall into the hands of Publius than among the barbarians.”

“Ah. Meaning—”

“That Publius asks,” she said. “But I wronged you. I—thank you. For saving my son. For sparing my home.” She came and stood near him. “Welcome, to my home and hearth . . .”

* * *

“Captain . . .”

What the hell? Aemelia moved next to him in the dark. She was tense with fear.

“Captain.”

The voice was Mason’s. Out in the hall. Quickly Rick rose and went through the connecting door to the other room. He pulled on a robe and opened the door. “Here. What is it?”

“Messenger, Captain. From Marselius. Said it was too important to wait until morning.”

“I’ll come—”

“Armor, Captain. I’ll help you—”

“Give me five minutes,” Rick said wearily. “Then come help.” And just how close a friend to Tylara
are
you?

* * *

Lucius, Marselius’ trusted freedman, stood in the library of the villa. Drumold, Elliot, Balquhain, Caradoc, and a dozen other officers waited with him.

“Hail, Lord Rick.”

“Hail, Lucius. You bring a message from Caesar. It must be that you have found Flaminius’ main army.”

“Yes. No more than forty stadia. Some march toward us. Their light cavalry are everywhere—”

Rick bent over the maps. “Good territory for it. They’ll be trying to circle past us, get some behind and some ahead. With more troops strung along this ridge above our line of march.”

And worse than that. There were a number of parallel roads here, and Marselius’ army was split into columns, divided into three main forces: Rick’s on the left, Marselius himself in the center, and Publius on the right. With luck, Flaminius could hit one of the flanking columns and punish it before Marselius could come to its rescue. Or circle behind them and harass from the rear. Or—

“It is clear that we must know what Flaminius is doing,” Rick said. He turned to his officers. “Send out the Hussars. But in a body, to patrol and return. Not to fight. They’re our eyes, and we’ll need them.”

“I’ll go myself,” Drumold said. “Now?”

“Yes,” Rick said. “Elliot, get the troops on alert, but keep them in camp. Until we know what Flaminius is doing it’s silly to do anything—”

“And yet we have no choice but to continue,” Lucius said quietly. “Or soon we will have no grain for the horses.”

“Yeah,” Rick said. He tasted sour bile. Horses eat a
lot
. Cavalry horses eat more than that. Stay here a week, and they’d have no striking force at all.

“Caesar demands that we march tomorrow,” Lucius said. “I have brought his plan of battle.”

* * *

The battle plan was no plan at all. March ahead and trust to God. Not that Rick knew of anything better.

“There is one more message,” Lucius said. “I have waited until we are alone to give it.”

Rick poured two goblets of wine. “Yes?”

“Your officer, Tethryn, shall have the Untipped Spear.”

“Ah.” So the Romans of Tran had preserved that ancient Imperial honor. “Dwyfyd will be pleased to add that to his brother’s tomb carvings.”

“Publius wanted instead to give money.”

“He had a reason?”

“Ah. He said to his father, ‘If I were as close to the purple as you, I would not waste Roman honors on the dead barbarians.
’ ”
Lucius smiled. “Caesar replied, ‘If I did not honor my friends, I would not be as close to the purple as I am.
’ ”

“And what happens if Caesar falls in battle?”

Lucius shrugged. “Publius is not evil, Lord. He is a strange lad. Well educated. Perhaps I was too strict. I do not know. But—well, we can pray to the saints that Marselius lives to be enthroned. I am unlikely to outlive him. And Publius may yet grow to a stature worthy of Rome.”

* * *

The cavalry returned an hour past full light.

“We found nothing,” Drumold said. He pointed to the map spread on Rick’s field desk. “So far as I can tell, we went to this spur of the ridge.”

“A good ten stadia past where you should have been ambushed.”

“Aye—”

“Meaning there will be an ambush there when the full army marches up that road,” Rick said. “You can be sure of it.”

“So what shall we do?” Balquhain demanded.

“What would you do?” Rick asked.

Balquhain spread his hands. “I know not, truly. Time was, and no so long ago, I would ride that road thinking myself safe. Now—now I see the danger, but I know little what to do about it.”

Nor I, Rick thought. He was about to say that—

“My lord!” Jamiy burst in. “Lord, the Captain of the Guard sends word. New forces coming from the west.”

“New forces?”

“Drantos soldiers, Lord. Royal Guardsmen.”

“What the de’il?” Drumold demanded. “Why? Could aught be—no, no, I will not think such things.”

Nor I, Rick thought. Lord God. And last night I betrayed her. Could this be Tylara coming? Or has something happened to her?

Or—I’m a damned fool.

* * *

Camithon stood at the door. His head was bowed, and the old soldier actually stammered. “Lord—lord, I knew not how to prevent him. Aye, our young Wanax has grown—”

“And so you came with him.”

“Aye,” Camithon said. “What was my duty? I am a soldier. I know well enough that I am ‘Protector’ of young Ganton, not of the Realm, which I know not how to govern. And as our Wanax conceived this mad notion while the Lady Tylara was no more than a day’s ride from the capital, I sent messengers to inform her that she should remain as Justiciar of Drantos, while I escort the Wanax. What else could I do, Lord? For he
would
come. To prevent him I must lay violent hands upon him—and I cannot believe his nobility and guardsmen would allow that. Must I then begin civil war?”

“No. Where is the king?”

“Ah—the servants are erecting his tent, and he is at his ablutions—in truth he hides until I bring him word of how you receive his visit. I think he fears you somewhat.”

“He cannot overly fear me, or he would not be here. What forces have you brought?”

“A hundred lances, lord.”

Three hundred heavy cavalrymen. Probably more; each lance was led by a knight, and many of them would have brought squires as well as men at arms. Picked men, no doubt. Man for man as good as Romans. Possibly better. But not disciplined; a hundred Roman Cataphracti would be more than a match for these three hundred.

But they were heavy cavalry, trained to fight in ranks three deep and cover a three-meter front. They could hold a third of a kilometer, at least for a while.

“And servants, and fifty porters leading a hundred pack animals,” Camithon continued.

“Rations? How long can you live without forage?”

Camithon shrugged. “A day? There was little enough forage in the wake of this army!”

Rick nodded. Well, that was another four hundred mouths to feed. Plus horses, who’d need grain and hay. There’d be no centaurs among picked Drantos troops.

One more damn thing to worry about.

“This is primarily a Tamaerthan expedition,” Rick said. “And it is my command. This is understood?”

“Aye, Lord. By me and by His Majesty.”

“Good. Then have the courtesy to inform the Wanax that when His Majesty is finished with his ablutions, the Commander-in-Chief would like to see him.”

16

Titus Licinius Frugi reined in his horse and resisted the impulse to stand in the stirrups. His officers were watching; they should not see him appear uneasy.

They were among a thin wood at the top of a long ridge that lay parallel to his enemy’s line of march. They could see most of Marselius’ force from here: the center, with Marselius himself, lay on Frugi’s left, ready to march up the military road to Rome.