Lord of Janissaries

by Jerry Pournelle

  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.”

  2

  Rick used charcoal to add another equation to the list on his whitewashed wall. He wished he had been a better physics student. He couldn’t remember the basic equations of harmonic motion, and he wasn’t sure he had derived them correctly. “Newton was one smart cookie,” he muttered to himself.

  The wall was covered with equations and notes and memoranda. One whole section listed things urgently needed, such as paper, and better lamps, and an adequate supply of pens and ink—all of which would be needed so that he could copy out a table of logarithms from his pocket calculator before its batteries failed. Another held the best data he had been able to obtain on crop yields. Next to that were diagrams of plow designs and crop-rotation schemes.

  There were endless details. The work would never be finished; but it was more satisfying work than building the army had been. The raid had bought time, but now he could do something lasting. Tamaerthon could become a center of learning, a place whose security rested on something more solid than military power. If only he had decent light to work by . . .

  When he heard the knock at his door, he turned with relief. The work was satisfying, but conversation was a welcome diversion.

  Caradoc stood uncertainly in the doorway. “Come in,” Rick invited. “There’s good wine in the flask on the table.”

  “Thank you.” Caradoc poured a cup of wine and looked curiously at Rick’s charcoaled equations and the diagrams of the Tran system. Rick knew that Gwen had been teaching Caradoc to read, and the archer commander had shown a lot of interest in Rick’s work in the past. Today, though, he said nothing.

  Rick frowned. “Some problem, Captain? Speak up, man.”

  “I am concerned for the lady Gwen,” Caradoc said. “She sits and stares at the fire, and wants no one with her. It cannot be good that she wishes always to be alone.”

  “Don’t let her be. Stay with her.”

  “Lord, I try, but she has an evil temper.”

  “That she does.” Lately she had taken to throwing things. Rick had long since given up trying to talk to her. He looked at his chalked calendar. Tylara had grown increasingly moody as well. Certainly the long winter had a lot to do with that, but she seemed to be brooding over something else as well—something she wouldn’t discuss. I’m surrounded by unhappy women, he thought. Just when things are going so well.

  Whatever Tylara’s problem, though, there was a simple explanation for Gwen’s moods. “Her time comes near,” Rick said. “I do not have personal experience, but I am told that all women are hateful for their last days before a child is born. Especially a first child.”

  And, he thought, it would be particularly tough for Gwen. She didn’t even know when the baby would come. The local day on Tran was slightly more than twenty-one hours long, and the gestation period seemed to have stabilized at two hunred ninety local days, as opposed to two hunred seventy on Earth; but would that be true for Gwen? No one knew. Straight mathematics; multiply two hunred seventy by twenty-four and divide by twenty-one, and you’d get three hundred days. How much of human physiology responded to hours passed, and how much to the day-night cycle? And was Earth’s moon involved? Women’s menstrual cycles seemed to coincide with Luna, but Tran’s double moons were small and much closer than Earth’s. Did they have an influence?

  “You care for Gwen, don’t you?” Rick asked.

  “Yes, Lord. And before the raid, I believed she cared for me. Now I do not know.”

  “She mourns her husband,” Rick said. “But you are right. She is too much alone. I’ll speak with her about it.”

  * * *

  “Your boyfriend’s worried about you,” Rick said.

  Gwen sat close to the fire. She looked up without smiling. “Oh, leave me alone!”

  “For God’s sake, Gwen, snap out of it!”


  “Why?”

  “Do you think your problems are unique?” Rick demanded.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, I put my foot in it that time,” Rick said. “Look, I’ve talked with the midwives. And Yanulf. They think everything’s normal—”

  “The medical experts,” Gwen sneered.

  “Well, they’ve delivered a lot of babies,” Rick said.

  “Sure. And lost a lot of mothers. Rick, I’m scared out of my mind!”

  “Sure you are,” Rick said. “Mind if I sit down?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Thanks. Look, I’ve probably started a population explosion here, but I’ve taught them the beginnings of the germ theory of disease,” Rick said.

  “You couldn’t have. I’ve tried,” Gwen said.

  “You didn’t go about it the right way. I told them diseases were caused by little tiny devils, and that blessed soap and boiled holy water would drive them away. They can accept that.” He looked thoughtful. “You know, I may be right about a population explosion. It happened that way on Earth.”

  Before the end of the nineteenth century, women often died of “childbed fever.” But then came Ignaz Semmelweis with his theory that childbed fever was caused by physicians’ dirty hands. His colleagues forced him to resign for saying it was their fault, but though he ended his days in a madhouse eventually enough of them believed him—after that most women lived to raise their children and have more. “There’s no way we won’t change things here,” Rick said. “It isn’t easy, but I’m trying to look ahead. Maybe we can avoid some of the problems we had on Earth.”

  “Maybe we can’t.”

  “Look, dammit, snap out of it,” Rick said. “You’re working yourself into a depression. Keep it up and you’ll get to me, too.”

  “I’m sorry,” Gwen said. “I really am. But it all seems so futile.”

  “Why? Because we can’t go home? We can make a home here,” Rick said. “And—dammit, Gwen, we’re more useful here than we ever were back on Earth. There wasn’t much chance that anything we’d do there would change history, but we can here. We’ve already changed political history. We’ve got peace with the Empire and land to farm. Even if Marselius loses, we can hold those border hills for long enough to get in a harvest. With the new plows I’ve got the smiths working on, we’ll triple the yields. We’ve helped these people already, and there’s a lot more we can do!

  “Sure, I’ve got an ambiguous status. The bards are trying to make up ballads about the raid, and they keep running into the fact that I never fought anybody. They can’t figure out if I’m a war leader or a mere wizard. But whatever I am, everyone wants to learn from us.

  “Gwen, we can start a university! Well, we start with grade school. But we can found a learning center that will really change this world. Look at what we can teach! Just the idea of scientific method and experimental science will bring on a revolution. And mathematics. We’re not genius level, but we know more about geometry and algebra than was known on Earth through most of history. Medicine. Dental hygiene. Physics. Even electricity. I’m not up to transistors, but I can make batteries and vacuum tubes and—what the hell’s the matter with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Rick, for God’s sake—you haven’t built radios, have you?”

  “Not yet. I’m still having trouble getting wire. But—”

  “Don’t! Please, please don’t.” Her voice held genuine panic.

  “I see,” Rick said. He stood and went to her, then took both her hands in his. “Don’t you think it’s time you told me about it?” he asked. “For God’s sake, Gwen, what did Les tell you, and why can’t you tell me?”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “We’re safe now,” she said. “Just don’t change anything. Oh, Rick, I’m scared—”

  “I know you are. But I don’t know why. Gwen, please. Please tell me.”

  She buried her face in her hands and wouldn’t talk anymore.

  * * *

  Three days later a messenger arrived from the west. Drumold summoned his counselors to his great hall to hear the news.

  The messenger was a young clansman who was proud of his mission. He said greetings to Drumold, then spoke to Tylara. “Six days ago there came to Ta-Kartos a dozen lords and knights of Drantos. They had traveled in great haste and could go no farther. One lord asked if the lady Tylara lived. All were overjoyed to learn you are safe in your father’s hall. They then asked my chief to send a messenger to you, and I left that night. They asked me to greet you as Great Lady, Eqetassa of Chelm, and to say they regret they cannot come to you. They beg you to come to them.”

  “Eqetassa of Chelm? But I have been driven from that land,” Tylara said. “Who are they?”

  For answer the messenger held out a signet ring.

  “Camithon? But I saw him die,” Tylara said. “He was thrown from the battlements.”

  “A trick to bring you to them,” Drumold muttered. “Sarakos hates you yet.”

  The messenger looked pained. “Do you say that Clan Ebolos aids enemies of Mac Clallan Muir?” he demanded.

  “No, no,” Drumold protested. “But I do not understand what they want of my daughter.”

  “Nor I,” the messenger said. “But Calad my chief listened long to their story. Then he bade me speak these words: ‘I have learned that which is of great importance to all the clans of Tamaerthon. I beg that Mac Clallan Muir and the Lady Eqetassa come to Ta-Kartos with all haste.’ ”

  “In this winter?” Drumold demanded. “Nay, it will wait until the snow is gone from the passes.”

  “My chief says not.”

  “Father, you may wait,” Tylara said. “But I have never heard that Calad is easily alarmed, or that he does not know how deep the snow lies in the passes. As for me—do you return now?” she asked the messenger.

  “As soon as I am dismissed,” he said.

  “Then tell your chief that the dowager Eqetassa of Chelm will arrive as quickly as she is able.”

  “Tylara, is this wise?” Rick asked.

  “What has wisdom to do with it? Sarakos may sit in my council hall, but they are my people yet.”

  Damnation, Rick thought. Of course she’ll go. “I’ll get things ready,” he said. “We can leave in the morning.”

  “I had hoped you would come with me,” Tylara said. For the first time in several days, she smiled at him.

  Drumold sighed. “Tell Calad your chief that Mac Clallan Muir will join him within a ten-day, and that the Lady Eqetassa will accompany him.”

  * * *

  Ta-Kartos was at the western edge of the mountainous highlands that formed Tamaerthon, and over the centuries had been built into a strongly walled town. After five days’ travel across the frozen lochs, Rick was glad to reach the somber fortress.

  Calad, chief of Clan Ebolos, was nominally subordinate to Drumold as Mac Clallan Muir, but that was a point no one wanted to stress too hard. When Drumold’s party was invited into Calad’s council hall, Drumold was content to take a place opposite Calad and leave the question of which end of the table was head and which foot for someone else to worry over.

  Besides Calad and his advisors there were half a dozen knights and bheromen of Drantos. Before they could be presented, Tylara ran up to their leader—an elderly soldier whose craggy face held a long ugly scar. “Camithon!” she cried. “I could not believe, even though I hold your ring and heard them describe you. I saw you thrown from the battlements of Castle Dravan.”

  “Nay, Lady, I was not thrown. Before they could do that, I broke free of them and jumped. Would I not know the places where the moat is closest to the walls? Once away from Dravan, I had aid from the countryside until I could join Protector Dorion and the young Wanax. . . . You must not know, then: I am Lord Protector of Drantos.”

  “Protector—”

  “Aye. Dorion was killed in the battle with Sarakos. To say this is to say little. He was torn to shreds by thunder weapon
s. Aye, at my side, and we nearly a league from the battle.”

  “Mortars,” Rick said.

  Camithon looked at him curiously.

  “Lord Rick is our war leader. He knows of these weapons,” Drumold explained.

  “Where is the Wanax Ganton?” Tylara asked.

  “The lad has caught the fever,” Camithon said. “He rests in this castle.” The elderly soldier paused. “We have come as beggars,” he said. “To beg Tamaerthon aid against Sarakos. Yet, in truth, we come as more than beggars. We bring news I think you will not find unwelcome.”

  “It had best be welcome news,” Drumold growled. “I am nearly frozen. What news have you that could not wait for you to come to us?”

  “Hear him out,” Calad said. “I did not lightly send for you. Protector, tell Mac Clallan Muir of the war in Drantos.”

  “After Castle Dravan fell, I fled to the army of the Protector Dorion,” Camithon said. “We caught Sarakos in an unfavorable situation and thought to destroy him in a great battle. I do not know who would have won that day, but suddenly our knights were cut down like wheat before the scythe. Sarakos had made alliance with men from the stars who hold evil weapons.” He paused to study Drumold’s expression. “You say nothing to this?”

  “We know already,” Drumold said.

  “Strange,” Camithon mused. “Yet this makes the telling easier. After Sarakos and his allies had beaten us, we fled to the mountains where we thought to fight on. Sarakos made our task the easier, for his armies ravaged the land. He turned out every bheroman in Drantos to replace them with his favorites. They so enslaved the commons that all, great and humble, were ready to join us. We fought no great battles—we knew we could not win such. But we harassed the land, burned the crops, killed his messengers, struck down his new knights and bheromen when they took possession of their villages. Sarakos has known no peace in Drantos. Many of his horses have starved or been eaten. Even so, many of his soldiers are dead of hunger and the plague, and many more have fled. He will lose more before spring, for the snows have closed the road to the Five Kingdoms, and we have destroyed the harvests in Drantos.