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Snow lay deep in the passes of Tamaerthon. Rick could hear the winds from the north scream past the walls of his lodge.
There were no palaces in Tamaerthon. Drumold’s lodge home, over a hundred feet long and half that wide, with walls of earth and stone ten feet thick, was the largest structure the hill country boasted. When the army returned from the raid on the Empire, the tribesmen built a lodge for Rick within the stone fortress circle and close by Drumold’s. It was nearly as large as the chief’s, which meant that the great hall was nearly impossible to heat, and Rick spent most of his time in the smaller room he had built to use as an office. It had whitewashed walls he could write on with charcoal.
He had intended to work there, but he found that very difficult. There was no glass. The best they had for windows was thin, oiled parchment; there was no good light even in daytime. He began to understand why the Northmen had slept late and spent their evenings at drinking bouts and listening to bards recite. What else could they do?
He desperately needed to plan for spring, but that was difficult. No one in Tar Tageral was skilled at making parchment, and the ink was terrible. He could make notes by scrawling on the whitewashed walls with charcoal, or using his ballpoint pen to write on a precious page of his notebook. But when pen and notebook were gone, there would be no others.
At first he’d thought it would be easy to bring technology to Tran. Now he knew better. He had to concentrate on tools; in fact, tools to make tools, and often that meant going back to first principles. Wire, for example. He knew that ancient jewelers had made small quantities of wire by painstakingly hammering it. About the time gunpowder was invented, the Venetians discovered the art of drawing wire through holes in an iron plate. The craftsman sat on a swing powered by a water wheel and seized the wire with tongs, letting his weight on the swing aid the work. But how thick a plate? How do you drill holes in iron? And where do you get the copper bar stock to make wire from?
And steel. Knowing that steel was iron with just the right amount of carbon was all very well, but how much is the right amount? And how do you experiment if you can’t operate a forge and you don’t want the smiths to think you a fool?
There were dozens of similar problems, and they gave him a headache. For relaxation, he invented the English custom of tea parties. Of course they didn’t have tea here, but they had a plant whose boiled leaves made a caffeine drink. Rick was getting used to the somewhat bitter flavor—and teatime was a good way to spend an afternoon. He was drunk in the evenings more often than he liked.
Sometimes he would invite twenty or thirty people; sometimes none but Gwen, if she cared to join him. He was not unhappy if she chose to stay in her rooms at the far end of the great hall from his “office.” She had grown increasingly moody and uncommunicative as her time approached, and her gloom and that of the weather in combination were more than enough to depress him.
But each afternoon he would have tea in his great hall. Any diversion was welcome.
* * *
Corporal Mason brushed snow from his sheepskin greatcoat and dashed for the hearth fire. He warmed his hands thankfully before turning to the others. “Cap’n, its cold out there,” he said.
Tylara laughed. “This is a mild winter. The Firestealer has plunged into the True Sun, but the ice in the middle of the lochs is barely thick enough to walk on.”
“Thank God I wasn’t here for a bad winter,” Mason said.
“Each winter will be milder,” Gwen said. “And each summer hotter.” She clutched her teacup close to her swollen belly and stared into the fire.
“Aye,” Tylara said. “The Demon Star is visible a full hour after sunrise, though both suns are in the sky.”
“I’ve lost track of how many Earth days we’ve been here,” Gwen said. She patted her swollen belly. “About eight months, obviously. We’ve missed Christmas.”
“It’s probably local Christmastide for the Romans,” Rick said. “Or is it? I don’t remember when the Catholic Church officially adopted Winterset as the day for Christmas. Anyway, we can have our own.”
“We’ll have to share,” Gwen said. “Yanulf is making preparations for his own ceremony . . . I suppose to ensure that spring will come.”
“No,” Tylara said. “We have long known that spring will come whether we coax the Firestealer out of the True Sun or no. But should we not give thanks for the signs that winter will end?”
Mason shivered exaggeratedly. “God knows that’s something to be thankful for,” he said. He took a seat near the fire. “Be glad when spring’s here.”
“Not half as much as I will,” Rick said. He grinned at Tylara.
Her answering smile was warm. “We always celebrate the return of spring. This year will be double joyful.”
“Even for your father?” Rick teased.
She laughed. “It is only his way, to complain that the dowry will impoverish him. He will drink as much at our wedding as any three others.”
Rick looked curiously at Gwen. Caradoc, who had been invaluable during the battle and now was commander of the archer company that was Rick’s personal guard, was often in Rick’s great hall. Usually he had business there, but sometimes what he wanted to discuss was trivial. He always managed to say a few words to Gwen before he left.
Would the spring ceremony be a double wedding? Officially, Gwen was the widow of an Earth soldier; the story provided an acceptable explanation of her condition. Only peasant women had illegitimate children. Since no one knew precisely when by local time Gwen’s husband had been “killed,” it was decided that her period of mourning would end at the same time as Tylara’s.
“Spring’s a long time away,” Rick said. “Too long. For now, let’s have an old-fashioned Christmas. No turkey here, but we can have a goose—”
A distant trumpet sounded.
“That’s the lads down in the lower village,” Mason said. “Reckon I’d better go see what it’s about.”
“You don’t have to go out in that cold,” Rick said. “That wasn’t an alarm—”
“It’s all right, Cap’n,” Mason said. “I’m glad of something useful to do. I’ve been getting cabin fever.” He got up and put on his heavy coat. The wind blew flurries of snow into the great hall when he went out.
* * *
The letter was on thick parchment. It was brought to Rick in his office.
The Roman had spoken the same language as Tylara, and she had told Rick that there was one universal tongue from the Five Kingdoms to Rustengo. But the letter was written in Latin—Rick could read enough of it to know that. He sent for Gwen and handed her the parchment. “Can you read that?”
“Just barely. I had three years in high school.” She sat near the fire and read laboriously.
“ ‘From Caius Marius Marselius, onetime Prefect of the West, to Lord Rick, war leader of the tribes of Tamaerthon, greetings. Peace be with you and your house. This letter is sent by the hands of Lucius, my freedman and friend, who brings you—’ I think that’s ‘gifts’—‘and a message which I hope—’ I don’t know that verb. It’s future tense. From the content I’d guess it was ‘will heed.’ Anyway. He says, ‘Lucius has power to speak for me.’ It’s signed with a lot of flourishes.” She handed Rick the parchment.
He looked at it curiously. “No way to tell if it’s genuine. But I suppose it is. Who’d fake it?” He nodded to his freedman attendant, a young NCO who’d escaped from a Roman slave barracks and fled to the hills. “Send their leader in, and see that the others are given food and drink and a fire. They are my guests.”
“Sir!” Jamiy stamped to attention, did an aboutface, and left the room.
Gwen giggled. Rick looked wryly at her.
“Well, it’s funny, that’s all,” she said.
“I tend to agree,” Rick said. “Blame Mason. He’s the one who’s been teaching them military manners—mostly learned from watching old British Army movies, I think. It amuses him.” And he thought, it’s not really so funny. There’s a point to military ceremonial. Under the circumstances, I’m not so sure Mason’s wrong. We’ll probably have to fight again. Even if I manage to wriggle out of it, I’ll need disciplined forces.
The visitor was wrapped in woolen clothing so that only his nose and eyes showed. When he took off his scarves—three of them, counting the one wrapped around his face—and the hooded cloak and the thick gloves, Rick saw that he was quite elderly and very thin. His beard and long hair were nearly white, and he had almost no teeth.
Dentistry, Rick thought. Have to invent that from scratch. Thank God my teeth are in good shape, but that won’t last. If I live long enough, I’ll lose them all. Dentistry’s another benefit of civilization you take for granted until you haven’t got it.
“Were you able to read my master’s letter?” the elderly man asked.
“Yes. What is your message?”
“Do you object if I sit? My bones are old, and the cold has made them brittle.”
“Please do.” Rick indicated a chair near the fireplace. “The matter must be urgent, to bring you here at Winterset.”
Lucius sat heavily and huddled forward for warmth. “It is that. But first—” He reached down to a leather case he carried and took out a thick roll of parchment. He held that near the fire to warm it until it would unroll slightly, then held it out to Rick. “Marselius thought you might prize this,” he said.
Rick took it curiously. The letters were handprinted in a block form and easily recognized. He read slowly. “Ego Tiberius Claudius Drusus Nero Germanicus—” He broke off, staring. “Is this truly a copy of the great history by the Emperor Claudius?”
“To the best of my knowledge,” Lucius said. “I have no reason to doubt it. You are pleased with the gift, then?”
“I am indeed,” Rick said. He frowned. What was this going to cost? “I am pleased that Marselius remembered my interest.”
“He has written down every word you spoke,” Lucius said. “I know, for he dictated them to me.”
“May I see?” Gwen asked.
Rick was reluctant to let the parchment scroll out of his hands. He knew that was silly. He couldn’t read it, and he’d need her help. He gave it to Gwen and watched to see that she didn’t damage it, but she held it as tenderly as she might hold a baby.
“There are other documents,” Lucius said. “One seems to be the story of how a group of soldiers came to this world from another.”
“Where are these documents?” Rick demanded.
“Prefect Marselius has them,” Lucius said. “They, too, could be gifts for you.”
“Your friend is generous,” Rick said.
“What does he want in exchange?” Gwen asked.
Rick frowned at her, but Lucius didn’t seem upset. “Your friendship,” Lucius said. “And an alliance.”
“Alliance?”
“Perhaps I should begin with what has happened since you left.” Lucius shifted in his chair.
“Jamiy,” Rick shouted. “Tea, please.”
“Sir.”
“So what has happened?” Rick asked.
“The legions of the western provinces have proclaimed Marselius as Caesar,” Lucius said. “I see this does not surprise you, and indeed it was inevitable if Marselius did not wish to be recalled to Rome and executed. The soldiers you released from captivity had no more pleasant expectation, and Marselius was popular with the other troops as well— and they could see the Demon Star. They have heard the tales. We all have. They believed Marselius when he told them what he had learned from you of the times of trouble to come. Few of the province, citizen or soldier, believe that our present Caesar will know what to do—or indeed care.
“Naturally, Marselius first sent for his family. His son and grandchildren were on the family estate near Rome. I was tutor to the household, as I have been for thirty years. For the past year, I have been working in the libraries of the friends of Marselius and his son. The letter that ordered young Publius—I call him young Publius, although he is a man older than you, my lord—the letter that ordered young Publius to join his father also instructed me to take many documents including that history by Claudius.” Lucius sighed. “I fear we have betrayed many trusts, but Marselius assures me that the parchments will be replaced for all those who survive the coming times.”
Jamiy brought in a pot of tea and three stone cups. As he put the tray down, Rick studied Gwen. She didn’t seem overjoyed by the news of the documents. Rick wished he could think of a good reason to have her leave. I could simply order her out, he thought. I don’t have to be polite to anyone—well, except Tylara and her father. What is she hiding from me? “Jamiy.”
“Sir.”
“Tell Major Mason that our new guests have brought important documents, and that I would like him to see that they are given to no one but me. No matter who might ask for them, they come to me and no one else. Is this understood?”
“Sir.” Jamiy stamped to attention.
“Excellent. Dismissed. Lucius, your story is fascinating. But has Marselius a chance? Will not Caesar bring the other legions against him?”
“Certainly he will try,” Lucius said. “But neither Caesar nor the army likes winter campaigns. They will wait for spring. By spring Marselius will have a surprise for Caesar.” He grinned toothlessly. “Marselius has freed many slaves, and is training them to make and use those long spears you call ‘pikes.’ He has studied your methods well, and is also training crossbowmen since only your hill clans use the longbow.”
“A surprise for Caesar indeed—”
“A surprise for you,” Gwen said. “What advantage will you have now?”
“You need none,” Lucius said. “Marselius offers alliance with you.”
“A trap to get you back onto the plains,” Gwen said.
Rick switched to English to say, “Gwen, teach your grandmother to suck eggs. And please stop interrupting. I want to know everything I can about the situation, and you are not helping.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I—I seem to be scared all the time lately. I don’t want—I’ll shut up, Rick. And I am sorry.”
“We know that you have no reason to trust Marselius,” Lucius said. “But he does not expect you to send your soldiers to help him. What he wishes is assurance that you will not raid the western provinces. We will pay you well for that. Marselius intends to plant many of the parklands and game preserves in grain. He will build storage places in the high hills. We will keep much, but there will be enough to send you more than you could take by raiding the Empire.”
“Do you have caves to store it in?” Gwen asked.
“Few, Lady.” Lucius looked thoughtful. “The older documents all stress the importance of caves as the only safe place when the fire and the deadly rains fall. There are caves in the northern hills, and others near Rome. Perhaps we can take those. But there is no chance at all if we must fight your hill tribes as well.”
It can work, Rick thought. For that matter, I could do more. Once Marselius is involved in a civil war, I could join him. The army would follow me, and with allies in the Empire, I could take Rome itself. A civilized place, with real potential. Who could stop me? “And he went forth conquering, and to conquer.”
William took all of England with less going for him, and the English were better for it. Well, better in the long run. They didn’t see it that way at the time. “So stark a man,” the chronicles say of him. “So very stern was he, and hot, that no man durst do anything against his will.” But even his enemies said that a man could cross England with his bosom full of gold. I could govern better than Caesar . . .
No, I’m no conqueror, and the face of battle is not a lovely sight. I’d rather be a teacher—and we don’t have to fight anymore. “It is not my decision alone,” Rick said. “But I will counsel Drumold to accept this offer. And to make another. There is land in the hills below our mountains. The Romans do little with it because they have better. Yet we have crofters with no land at all, and our best is no better than those hills. Let us work that land in peace, and it may be that we will have gifts for Marselius in exchange for the gifts he offers.”
“Rick, you can’t turn down tribute,” Gwen said in English.
“I don’t intend to,” Rick answered. “But trade’s a lot more stabilizing than tribute.” He turned to Lucius. “There will be many details, but I believe we can agree. With the Demon Star coming near, there will be slaughter and death enough. We need not add more.”