Lord of Janissaries

by Jerry Pournelle

“No. He has no reason to. And we have his son hostage, too.” Rick laughed. “Actually, nothing has gone wrong, my old friend. We are well within the time limits we set.”

  “And yet you fash yourself—”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” Drumold rode in silence for a few moments. “You wish to find Flaminius’ army, and Marselius. And you wish to force a crossing of this river.” Drumold looked thoughtful, then grinned. “I think I shall wake up with a fever tomorrow morning.”

  “A fever?”

  “Aye. A light fever, of the sort which keeps me from riding with the scouts. I shall stay back with the main body, to do what you have done here. You can lead the scouts in my place, and no one will spend a moment wondering why.”

  With any luck at all, there’d be at least one good fight with Flaminius’ patrols. The Emperor couldn’t simply go on giving ground forever. There might be a stiff fight at the river . . .

  I’ll be at the head of the army, Rick thought. For a few days, anyway. Lead from in front. Yeah.

  Idiot. You’ll get yourself killed, and there’s no one able to extract your forces out of this trap. Nobody but you. And without this army, Tamaerthon is finished. The imperial slave masters will be in the Garioch. Your friends, relatives, sold into slavery because you had to prove yourself. You’re brave enough, now stop trying to—

  Shut up! You talked me into track because it was sensible. All my life I’ve done what’s sensible. This time I’m going to lead my troops to battle, and that’s that!

  Only—there’s Tylara to think of. She’ll find out, and ask why I’ve risked myself when I didn’t have to.

  “And if my daughter says aye about it, send her to me,” Drumold said. “She may now be so great a lady that she will say aught to her husband—but let us see what she says to her father, who remembers her a naked babe making puddles in his lap.”

  13

  Rain fell lightly all through the day. The cavalry troopers didn’t want to ride out in that. After all, the Roman cavalry wouldn’t be out either.

  Their reluctance was mostly for show, Rick found. And they were flattered that Lord Rick, the Commander-in-Chief, was riding with them. But the rain continued, so that he could hardly see the men to either side of him, and they made no contact with the enemy.

  And the next day, messengers arrived at dawn. Marselius was indeed across the River Pydnae, marching south through the low hills to the east of the river. Directly ahead of Rick lay more hills and thin forests, good territory for battle. North and east, though, were swamps; if the two armies were to link up, they’d have to do so east of the river.

  Where was Flaminius? His generals could read maps as well as Rick . . .

  “Mount up!” Rick ordered. “We ride hard for the bridge. I want a mixed force of pikes and archers across that river before nightfall.”

  * * *

  The sky was grey with low-hanging clouds. The horses picked their way cautiously over muddy patches as the scouts rode out across fields to either side of the hard-packed dirt road. Rick led two hundred Hussars, plus Caradoc with twenty guardsmen and Elliot with two other mercs.

  They’d covered about seven kilometers when a guardsman from the point squad rode back.

  “Fresh dung, my lord. Horses, with a few centaurs.”

  “Hmm. How shod?”

  “Iron shod,” the scout reported.

  That meant cavalry. Roman farmers didn’t usually bother. Time to mark up a map. One thing about this campaign, he had decent maps, done by Roman scribes. The enemy might surprise him, but the terrain wouldn’t—at least not too much. The scale of the maps did leave something to be desired: the little clearing ahead wasn’t marked. Not far beyond was the river, with its convenient bridge. Not far to go at all—

  Rick rode to the center of the clearing, then reined and held up his hand for a halt. The well-used dirt road ran across the clearing and into the woods on the other side.

  He’d just got out the map—

  “Ho! Look out, goddammit!” someone shouted from behind him. There were three pistol shots, close together, then the shouts of his troops mingled with Roman battle cries.

  Rick stuffed the map hurriedly into his saddle bag and stood in his stirrups to look back along the dirt track they’d followed. Men in Roman helmets darkened with mud were darting out of the trees, their swords flashing among the scouts. One of the mercs was down, and two more were firing from horseback, wasting ammunition.

  The Roman troopers slashed at the horses with their swords, while archers farther back in the woods let fly at the riders. There were more shots from the mercs, but the Romans were mixed well with Rick’s troops and there weren’t clear targets.

  “Cease fire!” he shouted in English. “Elliot! Get out here in the clear! Dismount and set up weapons. Prepare to receive cavalry! They’re sure to be coming.”

  Switch languages again. “Caradoc! You and your guardsmen, stay with Elliot! Guard their weapons!” Now for his Tamaerthan scouts. “Hussars move out this way! Follow me!” He rode toward the other edge of the clearing.

  I’ve got to get my people disengaged, get some kind of order into this, get them out of the tangle with the ambushers. Elliot can take care of them after that. Dammit, those Romans were good!

  They’d almost reached the other edge of the clearing when the woods on both sides of the pathway sprouted archers and the air came alive with arrows.

  Too damn late, Rick thought. We’re tangled up with them again. We’ve got to buy Elliot and the guards enough time to set up. “Charge!” he ordered. “Forward!” He spurred toward the enemy.

  Arrows whistled in. Rick’s armor turned the two which hit him, but a third hit his horse in the shoulder. It jumped and squealed, but the arrow wasn’t in deep enough to be a major wound. Rick raised his M-16 and squeezed off five rounds. He thought he hit three men. Then he was at the clearing’s edge.

  He slung the rifle across his saddle horn and drew his saber. In among the trees the sword was as good a weapon as a firearm. He slashed at one man, striking him at the shoulder, then he was past and into the woods.

  He had time to notice that the woods stank. Most of the trees were lower and bushier than Earth trees would be; but mixed in with them were what could only be European scrub oak.

  He bore to the right. The road would be there, and more of his scouts were forcing their way along the track. Behind him a trumpet sounded; the high pitch of a Tamaerthan horn, not the low rumble of Roman signals. Someone had ordered recall of the point group. Who? It was the right move. Rick should have given the order himself, but he was separated from his staff. He heard men behind him. His, he hoped.

  There were crashing sounds, and someone rode up behind and to his left. Rick turned, sword raised.

  “Hold, my lord!”

  It was Jamiy, his orderly, holding his round target to protect Rick. Just then they burst through to a second clearing; the patch of woods between this clearing and the one where they’d been attacked couldn’t be more than fifty yards thick.

  Shouts and screams erupted ahead. The guardsmen of the point squad came pounding back down the path into the clearing. Hard on their heels was a mass of mounted Romans. As Rick and Jamiy rode into the clearing, the point troopers rallied to them, while from behind another dozen men who’d been following Jamiy came into clear territory.

  The Romans ahead weren’t the splendid legionary cataphracti; these were more lightly armored, with round shields, looking more like traditional Roman cavalry of the older days. They were scattered from chasing the point men; and Rick’s troopers were lining up in a passable formation—

  An organized charge will always carry against disorganized force. Which dry lecturer had he heard say that, light years away and a lifetime ago? But it was probably true. And there was Rick’s trumpeter—

  “Make ready to charge!” he ordered. He unslung his rifle and began a slow deliberate aimed fire, chopping down anyone in the Roman group who
looked like an officer. He hit five men. The rest were still coming. Lord, what soldiers!

  “Sound the charge!” Rick ordered. “Forward!”

  His light cavalry moved ahead in a passable line, sweeping toward the more numerous but scattered Romans. Rick held the rifle uncertainly. It would be better if he halted and fired but that wouldn’t do at all, not now with his troops at his back. Better to sling it again and use saber and pistol.

  They struck the Romans, cut down more leaders, and were swept into the thick of the action. More and more of Rick’s troops were coming from behind him, while extra supplies of Romans kept bursting into the clearing. Rick quickly lost track of what was happening to anyone except himself. This wasn’t a battle; it was a series of small-unit actions, two- and three-man engagements moving as rapidly as horses and centaurs could carry them.

  And it was getting out of hand. There’d be no point to fighting his way to the river unless he had enough troops to force a passage. “Rally back to the first clearing!” Rick ordered. “We must see to the star weapons! Sound ‘Follow me!’” He turned to ride back toward the woods, followed by what was left of his troops—how many? He had no idea at all. More than a hundred, he thought. The trumpet sang behind him as he rode.

  They reached the edge of the clearing just as a fresh wave of Romans burst through from the other side. Rick had no chance to count them, but it looked like a lot, enough to spread all across the clearing and still have depth to the formation. Enough to be a serious threat to Rick’s whole command—

  And behind that first wave of light cavalry the orange light of the True Sun glinted on silver links! Cataphracti, regular legionaries. Except for star weapons there wasn’t a thing in Rick’s cavalry command that could stand up to them.

  Well, I’ve found Flaminius’ army, he thought. Now all I have to do is live to get back and report it. Run like hell!

  * * *

  They reached the first clearing. Elliot had that situation under control; he’d set up a fire base in the clearing’s center, and was shepherding wounded and stragglers into its protection. There were still archers in the woods, and Elliot’s position was within extreme bowshot; but an engagement between a scope-sighted rifle fired by a man lying prone, and a bow used by a man who had to expose himself to shoot, wasn’t really a contest. The Romans would soon run out of archers.

  “More troops coming!” Rick announced. “Heavies. We’ll want to blunt their charge and get the hell out of here!”

  “Yes, sir!” Elliot answered. “Better get down—”

  Too late for that, Rick thought. The rest of his Hussars were entering the clearing in headlong retreat. There were more of them than Rick had expected, a least a hundred. They’d come part way across when the Romans came through the trees.

  “Caradoc!” Rick shouted. “Send four men back to Drumold! Have him bring up the rest of the cavalry on the double. We’ve found the enemy’s main army.” Caradoc said something that might be an acknowledgement.

  Rick fired six rounds into the advancing Romans. Three riders went down and a fourth was thrown as his horse stumbled over one of the bodies. Rick wished he had the H&K instead of an M-16. The lighter bullet would punch through armor just as well if it hit squarely, but could more easily be deflected if it didn’t.

  Then the retreating Hussars swept past and the Romans were nearly on him. Rick spurred forward; better to be moving than a standing target. A Roman soldier came at him with lance, but Rick swerved, firing at him as they closed; he missed, but the noise startled the trooper so that he raised the lance point. Then a Roman with an officer’s breastplate was straight ahead, lance lowered and ready to skewer Rick in the saddle. Rick flattened himself on the horse’s neck. The lance dipped, too far. The point drove into the side of Rick’s horse a moment before the two mounts crashed together. Rick’s horse started to topple. He hurled himself out of the saddle, trying to leap clear of the falling horse.

  The thrashing animal missed him by a yard. Rick fell heavily on the M-16. He rolled off it to find the action hopelessly jammed with mud. He scrabbled at his pistol; his hand was numb from the fall, and his thumb swollen so that he had to use both hands to get the safety off. He shot the Roman officer at point blank range, letting the heavy .45 slug batter through the man’s armor. Another Roman mounted on a centaur was charging toward him; there was no clear shot at the man. Rick aimed at the center of the centaur’s body and fired twice.

  The animal screamed, a nearly human sound, its stumpy arms and badly formed hands tearing at the wound. The Roman screamed also, in rage and something more, horror and sorrow. He jumped to the ground and charged at Rick, his sword held high. Rick fired, once, twice, before the Roman staggered; the force of his charge carried him to Rick, and the sword swept down. It never hit. Suddenly there was a round shield held in front of Rick; Jamiy stood left flank rear, his sword bloodied from some previous action.

  “Thanks,” Rick grunted.

  His orderly didn’t answer.

  * * *

  The Romans charged once more, to be cut down by fire from Elliot and his mercs. Even Roman discipline wasn’t good enough to get them to charge again, and they withdrew toward the woods.

  Rick’s charge had carried him almost to the clearing edge; a Roman horseman swept past, and Rick shot him out of the saddle. The horse stopped in its tracks, within easy reach. Rick quickly holstered his pistol and gripped the reins, ready to mount. He got one foot in the stirrup before the horse had time to react.

  Then more shouts. The guardsmen had swept forward to rescue their leader. Rick’s new mount panicked and reared, throwing Rick forward. He landed sprawled across the saddle like a bag of grain, and the horse bolted forward into the woods.

  He was among the Romans. One of their troopers slashed at his head. The sword glanced off his helmet. Rick struggled to get back into the saddle and draw his pistol, but he knew he would be too late. There’d be no Jamiy to take this blow. His orderly was back there, down, maybe dead, maybe not, but Rick was alone except for two guardsmen and a Tamaerthan officer who lay in a tangled pile just ahead.

  The Roman moved in for the kill. Stupid, Rick thought. This is what you get, trying to lead the goddam army yourself. You get dead, and who leads now?

  Then the Tamaerthan clan officer who lay at his feet lurched upward, barely able to stand. He staggered between the two horses, and his rising shoulder caught the Roman’s second downcut. The clansman stabbed at the Roman’s horse.

  “Tethryn!” Rick shouted.

  The Roman’s horse jumped as Tethryn’s knife entered his belly. The Roman trooper had to grab for the reins, and his next sword cut was spoiled. Rick managed to get astride his mount and get out his .45. There was one shot left in the magazine. Rick held the pistol to within a foot of the Roman’s chest and fired. The man screamed and fell backward, and Rick’s horse bolted again. This time it plunged out of the woods into the clearing, galloping across and up the narrow road toward the second clearing, as Rick tried frantically to secure his pistol before he dropped it.

  The second clearing was empty except for dead and wounded. Rick’s runaway mount carried him across at a slowing gallop; by the time they were to the other side, Rick had managed to holster his pistol and get the reins in both hands. The horse was tiring fast; it shouldn’t be long before he could control it—

  Except that he was being carried into unknown territory toward the Roman army.

  14

  The forest beyond the second clearing was only a thin screen of trees along the bank of the narrow, swift-flowing River Pydnae. Rick’s horse was tiring fast before he reached the river. When they reached the bank, the animal was more or less under control.

  A dozen guardsmen, led by Caradoc, trotted up behind. “Are you well, my lord?” Caradoc called.

  “Well enough now,” Rick said. “Except for them.” He pointed.

  Not quite three hundred meters off to his left was a bridge, a wooden roadway on st
one piers. Between him and the bridge stood more than two hundred mounted Roman cataphracti. Their officer, easily recognized by his scarlet cape, was pointing at Rick, but the troops were not moving. Possibly afraid of star weapons?

  Nonsense. Their mission was to control the bridge. But there weren’t any troops visible on the other side, which meant—

  “Caradoc, get your fastest messengers riding back to the main army. I want the whole Tamaerthan army here as soon as possible. They’re to keep in formations, but I need them fast.”

  “Pikes too?” Caradoc asked.

  “Especially the Pikes. Have another messenger go to Publius and ask him for as many alae of heavy cavalry as he can send. Tell him the main bridge over the Pydnae is intact, if we can just get enough troops across to hold it.”

  Caradoc turned to ride back and find messengers.

  Rick and the Roman officer faced each other at three hundred yards. The Roman still did nothing.

  Trying to make up his mind, Rick thought. Wonder how old he is? His ambush worked perfectly, but his outfit was shattered by weapons he can’t understand. He ought to be terrified, but there he is, defending that bridge, trying to decide whether his best move is to stay there or attack me. He can’t know who won back there in the clearing, or how many troops are left on either side. But he does know where his main army is—

  Suddenly the Roman officer made his decision. About half the Romans formed up and came toward Rick at the trot. A hundred of them, against his dozen; impossible odds, even with a new magazine in his pistol. “Let’s get out of here,” Rick called. He pointed back toward the trees.

  The guardsmen wheeled, and they rode back the way they’d come. About half the Romans took out bows and let fly; the rest came on at a fast trot, lances lowered; and now Rick’s horse was under control, but exhausted, impossible to get moving at anything more than a fast walk. Rick swore and dug in his spurs. He wasn’t going to make it to the woods in time. He drew his Colt, cursing as he worked the safety with his swollen thumb.