- 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’s force from here: the center, with Marselius himself, lay on Frugi’s left, ready to march up the military road to Rome.

On that side Frugi had four legions to face Marselius. More than enough to sweep Marselius from the field—but that would be wasteful of men. Frontal assaults always were.

But if he could bring a legion around the ridge to take Marselius from behind—

Marselius had entrusted his left wing to barbarians. To Frugi’s right, at the bottom of the ridge, was a secondary road in a thin strip of cleared level ground perfect for his heavy cavalry. The barbarians, separated from Marselius by the ridge, would march into that.

“That far. Excellent.” If the barbarians had scouted that distance last night, they would surely do so again now that they were marching . . .

First would come the barbarian light cavalry. They’d be no match for Cataphracti; drive them back, back upon their own marching columns—and charge on, using the fleeing enemy as a screen.

And if the enemy came on without sending scouts ahead? Even better. The road ran between the forest and a stream. The barbarians would have to march close to the trees; close enough that their archers would have little time for their deadly volleys as his hidden troops burst out. Let his legionaries get among the archers, and the barbarian army was his. Kill the archers! The pikemen were not of themselves dangerous. Horse archers could shoot them down—provided that they were not in turn shot down by those bright-kilted fiends with their long, gull-feathered arrows that could outrange his best by half again.

He shuddered at the memory of the disaster at Sentinius. Not again! Never again would he send Cataphracti charging at the pikes while the grey gulls flew in thick flights . . .

From his ridge he could see all the way back to the river. Most of it was fertile farmland, but there were scattered orchards, patches of forest, and low rolling hills to block his view.

A horseman rode up behind him. “It is a splendid view. A pity to spoil it with the ugliness of war.”

“Yes, my Lord Bishop.” And how much of that did my Lord Bishop Polycarp believe? Possibly all of it. To the best of Frugi’s knowledge, Polycarp was a good man—despite having the favor of Flaminius.

Marselius, my old friend. Were you right to revolt? Has Flaminius the Scholar brought us to that? But civil war is always the worst of disasters, the worst of evils. Better a dozen bad emperors than an endless series of wars for the purple. Once, Rome ruled from the sea to the West Escarpment, to the borders of the Five Kingdoms. Aye, even the High Rexja sent gifts to Caesar. Then came a year when three Caesars claimed the throne at once.

“But will not the trees and hills there prove troublesome?” the bishop asked. “They will hide your enemy.”

“All important, Your Grace. If we but knew where all of Marselius’s forces were, we would have them. We could win a bloodless—well, nearly bloodless—victory.”

Have I better things to do than give lessons in tactics to a servant of the Prince of Peace? No. Not for an hour. Perhaps longer. “If we know where each is, we can concentrate all our force against a small part of theirs. Break through their line, sweep about their flanks, come from behind. Their soldiers like this war no more than we. Given the chance, they will come to us rather than die for Marselius.”

“I know what Caesar has ordered, Your Grace. And I know what I must do. I will send the remnants of Marselius’s force to the frontier posts.” If there are any remnants. I have six legions. Two that Marselius doesn’t know about. Enough force to roll right over, smash my way—“I will give them quarter if I can.”

“I am, Your Grace. We have six legions plus the foot. Even counting the barbarians as a legion, Marselius has but four.”

“More, your Grace. With forces matched this evenly, it is as the square of the two. Say thirty-six to sixteen. As if we had double his force. But that would be for a frontal assault. I think we can do better when Marselius advances. He always was a rash leader.”

Polycarp looked at him sharply. “Be certain of victory. Then go with God. For Rome can little enough afford the loss of her knights, when the barbarians pound at our gates, and the star our ancestors called Beelzebub hangs higher each day. But—will not Marselius simply remain where he is? Why should he place his head in your snare?”

“He has little choice, Your Grace. There is very nearly nothing to eat where he is encamped.” Flaminius Caesar had rightly forbidden him to strip all of the lands along Marselius’s line of march; but he had allowed him this valley. A raven crossing that land would need to carry rations.

Marselius and the barbarians carried rations, of course. Grain and fodder for the horses, too. But never enough, not for that army. Marselius would have to fight, on ground chosen by Frugi. And Marselius would lose.

An hour passed. Trumpets sounded from the west. Marselius was on the march. But the barbarians were deploying as if for battle. They hadn’t moved up the road. Not even their light cavalry.

Two miles away, a brightly colored object trailing black smoke rose in the sky. A wind carried it toward him. When he strained his eyes, he thought he could see a thin line connecting it to the ground. Smoke rose from the place it was tethered.

“What?” Frugi asked. “Surely it is nothing to fear.” But he felt fear, all the same. Fear and terror of the unknown. Star weapons . . .

Star weapons were only weapons, he told himself. Like bows, with long-ranging arrows. Like ballistae that shoot far. But as bows need arrows, the star weapons need—need something I don’t have a word for. But something. And their supplies are limited.

“We heard of them from the Pirate Lands, Proconsul,” the officer said. “But we paid no heed. Until now.”

“Balloon,” he said. “See, it drifts toward us on the wind. And it is higher than we can shoot. Look closely, Proconsul.”

Titus Frugi looked, and saw disaster. There were men in the basket hanging below the balloon. They were pointing at the troops hidden in ambush.

The semaphore flags waved. An acolyte of Yatar stared at the basket beneath the balloon and called out letters. Another wrote the message.

Rick hid a thin smile of amusement. These lads were so proud of being among the very few who could read that they forgot that anyone else could. “Thank you.” He turned to Mason. “Think it’s worth dropping a couple on the ridge?”

“We’ll wait a bit more, though,” Rick said. “Ah. Murphy’s located an ambush force. Just about where I’d figured from the map. But it’s nice to have it confirmed. Dismounted. They’ll be out of action for a while—”

Gradually he gathered details as the semaphore flags wagged and waved. Two legions poised here. Another there, masked by an orchard. Two more in reserve. Hah. Titus Frugi had more force than Marselius had suspected. Must have drained everything, every trooper he could raise—

“Caradoc!” Rick shouted. “Get me messengers to ride to Marselius. Win this battle and by Yatar we’ve won the whole bloody war!”

And it damned well is, too, Titus Frugi thought. But how can I avoid a battle? I can’t even disengage! By now Marselius knows every formation I have, how many, where they are—

Is he wise enough to divine which troops I can trust and which I can’t? Which I can allow to wander through the trees, and which must stay under the eyes of their centurions? (And one legion whose centurions weren’t trustworthy; that whole legion had to be watched by another.)

Polycarp shook his head slowly. “Avoid slaughter. If you must fight—fight barbarians. Do not let Roman armies kill each other while the heathens remain!”

Good advice, old man. But I’ve fought those barbarians. You haven’t. Still, I suppose there’s nothing for it.

It had looked so simple. Until that thing rose in the sky. And now—now everything he did would be reported to Marselius. While he had no information at all on where his enemies marched.

Disaster. Strange how small a thing can bring disaster. And how little you expect it.

Presently the enemy strategy was clear. Marselius’s right wing advanced, slowly, through the croplands and orchards, while the barbarian left wing stayed behind. With his army split by the ridge, Frugi couldn’t simply sweep Marselius from the field; and how could he break past the barbarians and fall on Marselius from behind now that his ambush was discovered?

“They are only foot soldiers,” one of the legates said. “Barbarians at that. How can they withstand a charge of legionary horse?”

“I have described Sentinius to you,” Frugi said wearily. “And then they had no balloon.” The evil thing hung in the sky directly to the west. It must somehow communicate with the ground, because Marselius deployed against the legion Frugi had hidden in the orchards; and when the legion withdrew, Marselius closed his ranks again.

“It is held to the ground by that rope,” the frumentarius said. “Cut the rope and it must drift free. This has happened before.”

“We heard this from spies,” the intelligence officer said. “But we did not believe them.”

“So.” Frugi pointed to where the end of the balloon’s tether lay. “We need go only there—”

That was true enough. There were no more than a hundred to guard the balloon’s tether. But—“Few indeed,” Frugi said. “Now consider this. Their whole formation is like a funnel, with only emptiness at the bottom. With nothing where they keep their balloon. As if they cannot believe we know it to be vulnerable. Or that we do not know its value. Tell me, Legate: would Caius Marius Marselius know the value of a balloon?”

“Then we must assume they will protect it. With their star weapons, perhaps. With something. No. I will not send a legion down those lanes to chase a lure.” Frugi studied the battle ground again. “But—perhaps—”

“Their left flank. Spearmen. Supported by archers, but the archers are further in. There is a gap between their spearmen and the woods. I would suppose their horse waits there, just beyond where we can see, hidden by those woods. But—their horse is no match for a legion; and we have horse archers in plenty. These barbarians have never seen our archery. Perhaps, Valerius, it is time they learned.”

“Do so. Recall the Eleventh from hiding in the trees and remount them. Take them and the Eighth. Deploy the Eighth against the barbarian cavalry which will surely be hidden on your right. Bring the Eleventh to archery range and shoot down those spearmen. Shoot enough and they will run. When you have broken through their line, ride behind the enemy. Ignore the balloon and whatever protects it. Sweep behind the barbarian force and fall upon Marselius in the center. As you do, I will send the other legions in a general charge. We will crush Marselius.”

His enthusiasm was infectious, and the legate was caught up with it. “Hail, Titus Frugi!” he shouted away as he rode away. When he was gone, Frugi’s smile vanished. Go with God, Valerius, Frugi thought. As for me, I am afraid.

“I still think it’s stupid,” Art Mason said. “Hell, Cap’n let me go—”

“No. You and Elliot are needed here. Just see that Frugi doesn’t break through anywhere. And look out for the king.”

“Ye’re daft,” Drumold said. “But I hae long ceased to vex myself wi’ thoughts of controlling you. Still, what will you accomplish?”

“Possibly nothing,” Rick said. “But you exaggerate the danger. There is none to me, and little to anyone else. You do not have the game ‘chess’ here, do you?”

“No matter. It is a war game. There are many ways to win, but only one way to win quickly without great slaughter. Let’s go.” Rick waved his group forward: Reznick, Bisso, and two other mercs, plus a half dozen Guardsmen. The mercenaries wore kilts and bright tabards, and their battle rifles were wrapped in cloth bowcases. From a distance they looked like any Tamaerthan light cavalry.

They rode southeast, toward Marselius’s legions. When they were close to the base of the ridge, they dismounted and turned the horses over to two Guardsmen. Rick led the others into the thin scrub that covered the ridge.

The mercenaries shed their kilts and pulled on camouflage coveralls. The Guardsmen also abandoned bright colors and put on drab kilts and leather helmets. When they were dressed, Rick led them up the ridge.

Halfway up they paused in a wooded draw. Rick took out his binoculars, while Reznick shook out signal flags and waved them. Rick focussed in on the balloon, “Okay, they’ve seen us,” he said. He watched the flag man. “ ‘L-E-G-I-O-N-S A-T-T-A-C-K-I-N-G L-E-F-T W-I-N-G.’ Get the rest of that signal and acknowledge. I want a look over that way.”

He couldn’t see. The brush was too thick and the draw too deep. Then he heard distant thunder. The recoilless, and possibly grenades.

“Murphy says First Pikes are holding,” Reznick reported. “No change otherwise.”

When they were nearly at the top of the ridge, they took more signals from Murphy in the balloon. Rick nodded and waved Reznick forward.

Reznick screwed the sound suppressor on his 9mm Ingram submachine gun. He moved carefully up the draw, guided by Murphy’s directions, until he was near a small thicket. The Ingram made no more noise than the loud tearing of cloth as he fired an entire clip into the bushes. Then he reloaded and went to inspect his work.

Twice more Reznick took the silenced Ingram forward. Then they were at the top of the ridge.

They dashed over onto the level ground on top. Rick was panting, and his legs felt like lead. My arse aches, too, he thought. Hell, a man with piles didn’t ought to be doing this! A Roman trooper stood just in front of him. Rick fired twice with his .45 and the Roman went down. Then there were two more Roman soldiers. One held his shield forward and raised his sword—

Rick shot through the shield. Reznick fired from behind him and three more Romans went down. There were a dozen more dismounted Roman troopers. Reznick and Bisso fired at full automatic, short bursts, slow, methodical fire; the Romans collapsed in heaps. Then they faced five mounted Roman officers.

“Surrender!” Rick shouted. When one of the Romans wheeled, Rick shot his horse. The animal screamed in pain. “Kill the horses!” Rick shouted.

Bisso’s battle rifle thundered. Then it was joined by two more. As the horses began to buck and plunge, a Roman in a scarlet cape leaped free and drew his sword.

“Hail, Titus Frugi!” Rick called. “Why throw you life away to no purpose? I have come to speak with you.”

Frugi licked his lips and looked around. One of his officers was struggling to free himself from a fallen horse. Bishop Polycarp’s animal had not yet been killed; His Grace sat with his hands raised as if in blessing. His other three officers were taken, struck down and seized by these grim men; and his bodyguards lay in heaps.

“Set up over there,” Rick shouted. Bisso and the other two mercs laid out their battle rifles. “Anything comes over that lip, kill it.” He turned to the Roman commander. “Now, Proconsul, let us talk.”

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.”

“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.”

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Framed