Lord of Janissaries

by Jerry Pournelle

  If the Romans attacked early, the sun would be in his archers’ eyes. There wasn’t anything he could do about that except worry.

  The camp was deathly still. It wasn’t the silence of professional soldiers confident in their abilities. There were sporadic murmurs, small jokes that normally would have brought belly laughs, speculations about various women, even some attempts to cheer, but each conversation died away to silence again.

  “They’re scared, Cap’n,” Mason said. “I can feel it.”

  “Me too.”

  “It’s the waitin’,” Mason said. He squinted to the east. “Almost wish they’d come and get it over with, even if it’d be better with the sun higher.”

  “They’ll be here soon enough. Walk around a lot. Look mean and be sure they see your rifle.”

  Mason grinned. “Won’t show ’em the bandolier, though.”

  “This won’t be our only battle,” Rick warned. “Don’t shoot yourself dry.” He hesitated. “If everything comes apart, I’ll try to get Tylara out. The Romans will try to cut us off from the road back. If I can get to that first villa we sacked, I’ll wait for you there as long as I can. You do the same.”

  “Right. I wouldn’t worry so much, Cap’n.”

  “Don’t you worry?”

  “Don’t get paid to worry. That’s what officers are for.”

  * * *

  The true sun was half-high and the Firestealer three hands above the horizon when the scout messenger rode in. The legion was coming.

  “All of them?” Rick asked. “How are they formed?”

  “They are all together,” the scout reported. “They come in two large groups. The one on their left is slightly ahead of the other one.”

  “And where is the lady Tylara?”

  “As you commanded, she is retreating from them but keeping them in sight. She will send messengers if they divide their force.”

  “Excellent,” Rick said. He turned to Drumold. “Sound the battle horns.”

  The Tamaerthon hill people were obviously of Celtic origin, and Rick had expected them to have bagpipes; but either their ancestors had been from a group that didn’t use them, or the art had been lost during the centuries on Tran. Instead they employed a long, curled horn that looked something like a thin tuba. At Drumold’s wave, these sounded, and the camp followers began the rattle of drums. The pikemen and archers ran to their weapons.

  Rick climbed to the roof of the villa. It would be better for morale if he were with the ranks, but he couldn’t afford courageous gestures. More than one battle had been lost because the commander didn’t know what was happening to all his forces. The staff officers he’d chosen to keep with him didn’t like being up there either, but he’d stressed the importance of communications until at least a few of them understood how vitally he’d need messengers whose orders would be obeyed.

  His view to the east was partly obscured by low hills, but from the vantage point of the roof he could just see the scarlet and yellow pennants of his light cavalry. They had stopped at the brow of the hill and were looking at something beyond. He tried to pick out Tylara, but the distance was too great. He felt a momentary panic. Suppose she’d been caught by the Romans? But there was no point in worrying about that now.

  The First Pikes were moving nicely into formation, a rectangle one hundred twenty-five men wide by eight deep. The Swiss had formed their pikemen into precise square blocks, but he had too broad a front to cover for that. As he watched, they grounded arms, acting nearly in unison. That way they wouldn’t be exhausted when the combat began.

  What looked like a forest of pikes came up just in front of him as the two thousand men of the Second presented pikes. The binoculars let him see individual troopers. They looked nervous. Well, so was he. Here came the archers to take their places among the checkerboard of sharpened stakes that marked their position. Their ranks were nowhere near as geometrical as the pikemen. They weren’t supposed to be. If those heavy cavalrymen ever got among the archers to melee in hand-to-hand fighting, the battle would be over.

  He shifted back to the horizon. His light cavalry were facing him now, and riding like hell. He raised the binoculars in time to see the first of the enemy come over the low hills twelve hundred meters away.

  * * *

  The Romans trotted toward them like an armored flood. Tylara had no difficulty getting the light cavalry force to simulate panic. The problem would have been to hold them once the Roman horses broke into a trot. It looked as if nothing could stop that steel tide.

  They rode hard, past the First and Second Pikes and down the cleared lanes leading to the villa. Their horses were lathered before they were inside their own lines.

  Tylara had deliberately stayed in front, and now when she reined in, the others halted. Some of them might not have. One cavalry group—Rick called it a “platoon,” a strange word—would go on south beyond the slave barracks to warn of any Roman attempt to circle the woods and attack from behind, but Rick had stressed the importance of halting first to demonstrate that they weren’t really running away.

  Once again she marveled at the details he thought of. Nothing seemed too trivial for him to worry about. Any good chieftain inspected his clan’s weapons, but Rick looked at their boots and sleeping cloaks as well. Who would have thought of bringing spades? Or grindstones? Or of having special details to bring in wood for cooking fires? Without him they’d be lost. He was right to stay on the roof of the villa instead of the forefront of the clans. He wasn’t afraid of battle, no matter what some of the young warriors said.

  She dismounted at the villa steps. Just in front, her brother sat his horse with their father’s banner, surrounded by their few armored cavalrymen. Tylara grinned to herself as she went up the stairs to the roof. These proud young men might protest that their place was at the forefront of the battle, but now that they’d seen the Romans, they didn’t look so eager to charge out.

  Rick was looking through his far-seeing glass. Binoculars. She’d have to remember that word. She went to the parapet to join him. His smile warmed her.

  “How close did you get?” Rick asked.

  “Longbow shot. They carry short bows, and we did not want to be closer.”

  “You’re learning,” Rick said. He muttered to himself in his strange language, then spoke in hers, but still more to himself than to her. “Lances and swords. No shields.”

  “Why have they halted?”

  “Dressing ranks,” Rick said. “But mostly they’re hoping we’ll break formation and come after them.” He turned to a staff officer. “Go out to each regiment. Make certain the commanders understand that the Romans may charge and then act as if they’re running away. They want us to scatter. If we take that bait, they’ll cut us down. The first man I see breaking formation without orders, I’ll shoot down from here.”

  “I had better take that message myself,” Tylara said. “The clansmen will not like to hear it.”

  “They’ve heard it before, and I’ll need you here. Get moving, Duhnhaig. And come back when you’ve told them.”

  The sept chief looked curiously to Tylara. She smiled thanks and gestured him on his way. “You speak roughly to important chiefs,” she told Rick when Duhnhaig was gone.

  “God dammit—no. Sorry. You’re right. It’s my fault if we lose no matter why. That’s why I need you with me. I can handle the Romans—it’s our own troops I have to worry about.”

  There was a blare of horns from the Roman ranks. They had formed into two massive blocks, each ten ranks deep, horsemen knee to knee, their lances with pennants held high. The trumpets blared again, but there was no movement.

  They were answered by the drums of the clan women, and the shriller sound of Tamaerthon war-horns.

  * * *

  Prefect Marselius cursed silently. He had hoped the barbarians would either charge him or break and run, and they weren’t doing either. More and more he was certain that a Roman officer led them. He’d never heard
of hill tribes standing in regular formation to wait for an attack.

  Those blocks of spearmen looked remarkably steady, too. Over the centuries Rome had worked out tactics to deal with any situation. Standard practice when opposing standing spears was to come to extreme bow range and gall them with arrows until they charged, then cut them down with swords.

  That wouldn’t work here. He could see all too many archers formed behind those ditches and stakes, and he’d had experience with those hillmen’s longbows. They outranged anything a horse archer could carry, and an exchange of archery fire would cost far more than it gained.

  Standard tactics against archers was a charge with lance.

  You rode as hard as you could and lost some men getting in among them; but once there, the battle was over. If they were mixed in with spearmen, as they often were, you did the same thing. If they’d planted stakes and other obstacles, several centuries would dismount and cut a path for the rest.

  The tactical writers hadn’t considered the situation of mixed blocks of archers and spears. Marselius had never heard of such a situation. But then he’d never heard of barbarians penetrating this deep and waiting for a battle, or of having cavalry screens that kept watch on him from camp to battlefield.

  “The men grow restless,” his senior legate said.

  “Let them. Leave time for fear to grow among our enemies.”

  “We also tire the horses.”

  True enough. An armored man was a heavy burden, even for a war-horse. The longer they were saddled and still, the slower they’d be in the charge. “Sound trumpets,” Marselius ordered. “Play false calls. Marching music.”

  The cornu blared out, to be answered from the barbarian camp by their own horns and drums. That, at least, was standard. The hillmen’s women rattled tom-toms incessantly. It was said to be a form of supplication to their barbarous gods.

  He reviewed the situation again, reconsidering his decision not to send any of his force around either the lake or the forest to fall on the tribesmen from behind. The morale effect of an attack from the rear was often devastating, but he suspected these barbarians wouldn’t be shaken by it. Anyway, in that mass of irrigation ditches south of the villa, his cavalry would be worthless. It wasn’t worth the cost of dividing his legion.

  He could withdraw. Shadow the tribesmen, wait to catch them in the open. The legates would not care for that—it smacked of fear. And although in the open the barbarians would be the more easily defeated, more of them would also get away. No. They must be taught not to invade the Empire.

  There was one other factor. The villa had not been burned. A bold stroke now would return it intact to Sempronius’ family—perhaps even rescue the patrician alive. Instead of hatred there might be gratitude from Caesar’s relative.

  They must attack while the horses were still fresh. There was nothing to be gained by waiting. He stood in his stirrups. “Sound the calls for a charge with lance,” he ordered.

  3

  The steel tide broke forward into a walk, then a trot. The lances came down in unison, and the armored horsemen poured toward them, spurring to a canter. Rick felt a final twinge of fear, swallowed hard, and gained control of his nerves.

  They came in a single wave four ranks deep, riding almost knee to knee, their line stretching nearly from woods to lake. “They mean to roll right over us,” Rick said. He wondered what he’d do if he were the enemy commander. A hard charge carried home? That would certainly be a more effective tactic than the French used at Crécy, where they’d come in small driblets of undisciplined feudal lords. These troops were a lot better than anything Philip had with him that August day.

  They were almost within extreme archery range. Rick could be certain of the exact line because he’d had it marked with stakes. The archers lifted their bows and drew back. One or two released arrows. Rick hoped their noncoms got their names. The time of release had been carefully calculated: assume heavy cavalry moves at fifteen miles an hour, and time the flight of an arrow to longest range—

  “Let the gulls fly!” someone called. The arrows flocked upward in a volley, arced high, and fell among the charging horsemen.

  The effect was instantaneous. The lines in front of the archers lost their geometric precision and dissolved into a wave of rearing wounded horses. There were screams as horses and men felt the bite of the iron-tipped shafts.

  English longbowmen could get off a flight every ten seconds. The Tamaerthon archers were just about as good. As the Roman cavalrymen—Rick still couldn’t bring himself to call a formation of armored men on horseback a “legion”— covered the final two hundred fifty yards, the Tamaerthon gulls flew three more times. Then the archers skipped back among their stakes and fired at point-blank range.

  What struck the archer’s line wasn’t an orderly formation at all. The horsemen were moving too fast to stop when they saw the angled stakes, and tried to guide their mounts around them, but the horses got in each others’ way, while wounded and riderless mounts dashed randomly among them.

  Meanwhile, the First Pikes had taken the initial shock—only there wasn’t one. The first rank of pikemen knelt and held their weapons butt grounded, angled at the eyes of the horses. The next three ranks held theirs high, points outthrust over the heads of the kneeling first rank. They presented a wall of pointed steel, and the horses wouldn’t stand it. They swerved about, or halted, some with a shock that dismounted their riders. Not a single lance struck home among the pikemen.

  “This would be the time for a charge,” Rick muttered. “But I can’t. They’re not disciplined enough to stay in formation.”

  The first line of Romans dismounted to attack the pikes with swords. They were braver than their horses, and several got in among the pikemen, although most were thrust down by the heavy points. The few who managed to close slaughtered several of the front rank, but the rear files thrust forward to strike them down. The pikemen shouted triumph, and the cheer ran down the ranks.

  It was all happening at once, and far too fast for anything Rick could do to influence the battle. The battle on Rick’s left wing was nearly over before the Roman horse could reach the much larger block of archers and pikemen close under the villa.

  As the leading wave of Roman cavalry approached the broad face of the Second Pike Regiment, the horses shied away from the steady wall of points edging to their left so that they clumped in front of the archers. The wagons and downed trees and other obstacles concentrated the enemy ever tighter as each horseman tried to go down one of the cleared lanes.

  The grey gulls flew down the cleared lanes to strike down horses and riders alike. The charge came on, deeper into the pocket. The line of archers here was much thinner than that between First and Second Pikes; it had to be because there was three times the front to cover. The arrows flew less thickly, and the comparative safety of that front, compared to the solid wall of pikepoints, drew more and more of the steel-armored Romans like a magnet.

  Those stopped by ditches and trees dismounted and continued forward shouting war cries.

  “Now!” Tylara shouted. “Use your star weapons! Now!”

  “Not yet.” Rick watched the situation develop. The Romans on foot were dangerous. Their armor partly protected them from arrows. But they were also much slower, and the archers had more opportunities to shoot. The Roman wave came forward ponderously, past the wagons, around the abatis of felled trees, around and over the ditches, onward toward the archers who now had no protection but their stakes. The archers fell back involuntarily, back again—

  To be stopped by backing against the heavy cavalry and Drumold’s banner. They held for a moment, resolutely firing another volley of arrows point-blank at the Romans among the stakes that had been their final defense line.

  “Now,” Rick said. He shouted to a mounted messenger below. “Now!” He ran for the stairs, shouting for his orderlies and his messengers. It was time to get into the battle.

  * * *

  Tylar
a watched the opening charge of the terrible Romans without fear. She had confidence in Rick, if not in her clansmen. When she saw the Roman wave break against archers and pikemen alike, she was certain they had won.

  But the Romans pressed on. When they dismounted to charge headlong toward the archers and her father’s banner behind the archery line, Tylara took fear again. Did Rick not understand that if that banner fell, half the clansmen would try to save themselves any way they could? Why did not Rick kill them with his thunder weapons?

  He seemed to have forgotten that he was armed. He was far more concerned with shouting orders to messengers. Now he ran for the stairs. Tylara followed, wondering.

  The din of battle filled her ears. She heard Rick shout again, but she could not understand him. Just below, not thirty yards from the steps of the villa, there was desperate fighting, with the Romans marching forward into the hail of arrows. The archers retreated, still in an orderly line, but here and there a man broke and ran—

  The Romans had to be stopped. Her light-cavalry escort stood near the villa. It would not be much use against armored men, even armored men on foot. But her brother’s heavier-armed men might be thrown in now—Rick was running there, and his orderly was holding a horse for him. Was Rick going to lead them himself against the Romans?

  That was Rick’s affair. The light cavalry was hers. She shouted to them to dismount and led them forward to stiffen the retreating line of archers. The archers let them through gladly, and she rushed forward swinging her battle-axe. She knew she was not skilled with it, but the only way to be certain the others would attack was to lead them herself.

  A Roman thrust at her with his lance. She parried with the axe, stepped inside his reach, brought the axe around to cleave at him. It struck his helmet but did not cut through, and while the man was staggered by the blow, an archer ran forward and struck the Roman again with the mallet used to place stakes. The armored man fell.