Lord of Janissaries

by Jerry Pournelle

  First Pikes came at a steady lope, pikes aligned into a forest of advancing points, in step as if on parade. A few of the bombard gunners ran ahead of the pikemen to beat the last of the Prophet’s men from their guns, then wrestled the bombards back into action. Three were actually firing at the retreating enemy when the Seventeenth Legion marched out of the forest followed by Tamaerthan archers.

  * * *

  Art Mason woke to a thundering head and a sharp pain in his leg. He tried to sit, but was restrained. It was a struggle to open his eyes. Somewhere nearby a man was screaming. Many men.

  The first thing he saw was the smiling face of Yanulf’s sidekick, Apelles.

  “Praise Yatar the healer,” Apelles said. He turned and shouted to an apprentice. “Carry the word to the Lord Rick.”

  “At once.”

  So the Colonel’s alive too. We’re getting too old for this. He listened, and heard distant sounds of guns, but not nearly enough.

  “Can you count the fingers I hold up before you?” Apelles asked urgently.

  “Fingers? Four. No.” He tried to shake his head and that hurt. “Two.”

  “Good.” He wiped Mason’s face with a wet cloth. “The Lord McCleve has been summoned.”

  “To hell with McCleve. Who’s winning?” Mason demanded.

  “All is well.”

  “Talk, damn your eyes!”

  “You should rest—very well.” Apelles wiped Mason’s forehead again and held a cup of water to his lips. “Drink. Then I will talk.”

  The water was bitter.

  “Where to begin?”

  “The goddamn cavalry was about to grind up my troops!”

  “Ah. The captain of that cavalry had arrayed his men without telling Phrados. Phrados thought he was deserting. He ordered the Defenders to attack.

  “When the Defenders advanced, Lord Balquhain held his forces and waited until the Defenders had finished their work. Then he charged.”

  “Good man.” Mason tried to grin, but it hurt.

  “Then our gracious Wanax Ganton most honorably led the host of Drantos against the Defenders! He smote them to the ground! They never rose again!

  “Publius Caesar, envious of our king’s glory, led his legions against the enemy’s center, and the Lord Rick retook the Great Redoubt and the Guns.

  “The day is ours.”

  The day is ours. His head buzzed. There had been something in that water. He closed his eyes to sleep, and a smile drifted to his lips. Survived again.

  * * *

  The Prophet’s tent stood. The interior was stripped bare. The great wheeled altar lay on its side. Holes gaped where there had once been bronze handles and silver fittings.

  Matthias turned away. He handed his torch to a guard and mounted.

  Captain Pharikos rode up. “It’s like this everywhere, sir.” He shrugged. “At least one thing’s for the best. If they don’t find Phrados’ body, anyone can claim to be him. If Drantos has to fight a new Phrados every year, they’ll get a bellyful of fighting. If we send all those Prophets silver and arms—”

  “Peace. The gods have judged Phrados. It is not for us to question their judgement.”

  Matthias knew that he had spoken sharply, but not why. He turned his horse away and waved his band forward out of the camp.

  Screams echoed behind him. Screams of both men and women. Matthias was glad of his two hundred armed and mounted men. Men I can trust. There are few enough honest men left here.

  It was not until the camp was several stades behind that Matthias thought of his harsh words to Captain Pharikos. The strategy is sound. It would rob the starmen of much of the profit of today’s victory.

  He rode on in silence. No. To harass the starmen with false Prophets will strengthen their alliance with the city-states. The men who would rise in that alliance will not be those of the old blood who honor the old ways. Mercenary captains, merchants. New men who will multiply like lamils in the breeding time.

  And that is what I must tell Issardos, yea, and the high Rexja Toris himself.

  He would not speak of the judgment of the gods to any but Vothan.

  17

  Gwen dismissed her servant, then helped Siobhan lift Art Mason’s injured leg onto the carved ironwood table.

  “And Publius Caesar took back not one word of what he said to the knights of Drantos?” asked Siobhan.

  Art Mason grunted as she loosened the binding holding the poultices Apelles had applied from ankle to mid-thigh. “Not that I heard, but then he’d hardly do it in public. Maybe to Ganton, in private—”

  Siobhan bristled. “Then the knights of Drantos have known great insult, with no redress. Will the Wanax let matters rest there?”

  Mason and Gwen Tremaine exchanged smiles. Earthmen against locals, but also discreet age against hotheaded youth. Getting any kind of smile from Art—and from Sergeant Major Elliot, Larry Warner, and Rick—was lifting Gwen’s spirits more than she would have believed possible. Whatever had been making all four of them look through her, then shy away from any explanation, the victory over Phrados’ host and the end of the southern war had helped a lot.

  Helped, but hadn’t ended it. What do they know, and why won’t they tell me?

  Siobhan saw their conspiratorial glances and laughed softly. Gwen smiled to herself. Mason was going to have his hands full with that young lady after they were married—and that seemed certain now. There was no mistaking Siobhan’s reaction when she heard that Mason had been wounded, or when she saw his troops bring him through the University gate on a horse litter. Chalk up another arranged marriage that’s turning into a love match. Hah. Les intended that for Rick and me.

  “Publius Caesar drips insults like a hydra feeds. It doesn’t mean all that much,” Mason said. “I think we’re just going to have to live with it.”

  Siobhan frowned.

  “Ganton will probably give Rudhrig an important post next time,” Mason said. “I just hope Rudhrig’s learned enough that a lot of good men don’t get killed for his damned honor. Anyway, that’ll have to do. Ganton has a few other things on his mind.” He grinned. “Like becoming a father.”

  “It’s official then?” said Gwen. “Octavia’s pregnant?”

  Siobhan looked intently at the fire.

  “The priests say so,” Mason said. “I hear the formal announcement goes out over the semaphore in a couple of days. When the Roman bishops say the signs are right.”

  “Hallelujah!” said Gwen. I hope I sound surprised. She thought of the letter Octavia had written to her ten days ago.

  “A good thing,” Siobhan said. She sniffed. “Lady Prygisia has told the entire court that our queen is barren. And some listened, too.”

  “This should help,” Art said.

  “I’d think so.” Gwen brushed back a wisp of hair. “The great ladies of Drantos weren’t too pleased that our Wanax went to Rome to find a queen.” Poor Octavia. Hardly any friends at all, so when Ganton isn’t home she broods. “This will put a stop to that particular gossip anyway.”

  “Especially if it’s a boy,” Siobhan said. Then she giggled.

  It was Art Mason’s turn to look at the fire.

  * * *

  Siobhan had finished with Art’s leg and was trimming his hair.

  Art Mason reached up to take the scissors from her, and looked at them closely. “Steel?”

  “Sort of,” Gwen said. “Something between a good-tempered iron and real steel. The University makes them. Actually we were looking for better ways to make swords and bayonets, but one of our apprentices made scissors, and now we make a good profit selling them.”

  “Much to the annoyance of the Guild of Smiths,” Siobhan said.

  “Yes. I’ve been thinking of some way to license our inventions. Patents. Something—”

  “Far as the captain is concerned you can give it away,” Mason said. “Spread the knowledge—”

  “Yes, but if we can’t afford to do the research, how will we ha
ve knowledge to spread?” Gwen demanded.

  “Hmm. Budget time again?” Art grinned.

  “How did you know? But seriously, we need to get along with the locals, but we need to reward our people for doing good work, too.”

  “Right. I’ll bring it up next staff meeting.” Mason took a folded sheet from his pocket and made a note with a ballpoint pen. “Sure wish your husband would bring us proper notebooks.”

  “Daytimers, adjusted for the Tran calendar! Art, not to change the subject, but did any of the Defenders escape?”

  “Not many. Once the Prophet’s people saw they could surrender to us without being killed, a lot of the infantry—ours and theirs—settled their scores with the goon squad. It wasn’t pretty. A lot of the Prophet’s main body got away though. Ten, twelve thousand, maybe more.”

  “Hah. I wondered why Publius accepted Rick and Yanulf’s terms on the disputed lands.”

  “Hadn’t thought of it, but I guess Rome would have a problem with that many of the Prophet’s people running around. ’Tween them and the just honest-to-Yatar bandits, it’d need at least two legions to tame that area. And they ain’t got any legions to spare.”

  “Not if they want to resettle their old Southern Provinces.” Gwen looked thoughtful. “That’s going to be a powder keg pretty soon.”

  “Yeah, until everybody starves.”

  “Starves, or gets killed by refugees from the far south.” Gwen shuddered. “And next year things get really bad.”

  “The city-states are what really worried the colonel,” Mason said. “Not too much off the top, where—”

  “My lord?” Siobhan asked.

  “Nothing. Joke that doesn’t translate.”

  “My lord, why was the Lord Rick so concerned about the city-states? Are they not loyal to the alliance?”

  “They are now.” Mason reached out to touch Siobhan’s hand. “But they’re short of troops, and sure don’t have enough cavalry to spare to police the disputed lands. Only somebody’s got to hold that territory to keep the refugees from streaming through.”

  Gwen smiled to herself. Siobhan was hanging on every word Art said. But she’s really interested, too. She’d better be. We’d all better be.

  “Anyway,” Art said, “that’s how Morrone wound up as Protector of the Southern Marches. Gives him the same rank as an Eqeta, and he gets a little army of his own with everybody chipping in to pay for it.” Mason laughed. “Damnedest little army you ever saw. He’s got hill tribes, some of those outlaw Tamaerthans Gengrich brought north, a lot of younger sons, a bunch of mercenary cavalry from Phrados’ horde, and Vothan only knows what else.”

  “Even so, I should think the Lord Morrone would be pleased,” Siobhan said.

  “Oh, he’s happy as a grig. The only man who even raised an eyebrow was Eqeta Rudhrig. He said that Lord Morrone’s great and undoubted gifts seemed to fit him better for a place closer to the throne.”

  Siobhan smiled. “Does he wish the Protectorship for himself, or does he think Morrone less than fit?”

  Hah. She’s pretty when she smiles. And that’s a sensible question. Mason could do a lot worse.

  “Damned if I know. His Lordship of Harms is like Publius these days. He’s got it in for the whole world, so you don’t know how much he really means. On the other hand—I like Morrone, but I’ve never seen him with an independent command.”

  Gwen nodded. And maybe Ganton is being bought off from doing something about the Roman insults to his knights—Rudhrig’s knights—by a Roman gift to his Companion.

  The thought disturbed Gwen. Was Ganton letting the Romans bribe him? One compromise didn’t make a pattern, but—She remembered King Stephen of England. He couldn’t say no to anyone. And brought on one of the worst civil wars in English history. A king who will blow this way and that is bad news. “Can Morrone do the job?”

  Mason shrugged. “Personally, I don’t think he’s much of a diplomat, but it’ll be a year before he’ll be out of the saddle for two days running. By then we’ll have him fixed up with somebody like Apelles. Or maybe that oddball Vinicianus.”

  “I see.” The haircut was nearly done. Gwen stood. “If you will excuse me, I have work. Ring for anything you like. I will be in my study.”

  She climbed the spiral staircase to her loft. It was the only spiral staircase on Tran, and she had had it and the little study built during the nesting stage of her last pregnancy. Being a noblewoman with a lavish supply of cheap labor had its advantages. Of course it spirals the wrong way. How did I know you want to hamper a swordsman by putting his right side against the core of the stairs? Oh, well. Nobody else knew, either. Except Rick. And I have my pistol.

  The window of the studio was only an arrow slit, but it gave her a good view of the west wall of the University and the cemetery beyond it. There were a lot of new monuments there; the bodies of the dead at Vis had been burned or buried where they fell, but the Romans who’d returned had been busily carving monuments to the comrades who hadn’t.

  They bought us time. They deserve their monuments.

  A shift of the wind brought a cloud of stone dust from where the Roman masons were building the new workers’ quarters and a block of shops. Mortimer Schultz had his eye on that block as just the right place for Tran’s first printing press.

  The clink and rattle of masons peaked, then gave way to the shouts of drill sergeants. The University’s immigrant craftsmen were getting their basic training. Elliot wanted to train them all with the Tamaerthan longbow. Gwen couldn’t convince him it took years to train a competent longbowman, especially since Elliot had learned to use one well enough to win prizes.

  There was another problem. The Tamaerthans wouldn’t much care for foreigners learning their national weapon.

  If it isn’t one thing, it’s another. Which would cause the more trouble, trying to teach foreigners to use the Tamaerthan longbow, or teaching them musketry? Either way some of the Tamaerthan clans would be unhappy.

  But we have to do something. Suppose the Romans abandon us? This place can’t be defended. And it damned well is going to be!

  First things first. She’d need both archery and target ranges. Gunpowder. Carronades. How did that Kipling poem go? No, said the cannoneer, shooting from the wall. Iron, cold iron shall be master of you all.

  Damned right, provided I get all that brush cut away from around the walls. Fields of fire—

  First I’m a medieval politician, now a medieval general. Next?

  Whatever. Tran is changing us as fast as we’re changing Tran, and neither of us is going to recognize what we were before Rick Galloway came here with that flying saucer full of mercs.

  INTERLUDE

  D’JORR

  The viewer on the polished wood table was as plain as everything else in the chamber, but it was of high quality. The Guides of the Way of the Warrior did not live luxuriously, but they lived well.

  Right now it showed Les’ head silhouetted against the main screen on the bridge.

  “You will note that his screen is off,” Agzaral said.

  The robed man seated behind the table nodded. “His third visit to Tran, did you say? Then why does your pilot wish to conceal his location from you?” A faint smile came to his lips. “Agzaral, I think you have not told me everything.”

  Agzaral returned the smile. “Everything of importance. Watch his report.”

  Les’ image continued unemotionally. “Captain Galloway continues to work toward raising a professional standing army loyal to its commissioned officers, in place of a medieval host loyal to feudal lords. He has to move slowly, for many obvious reasons, not the least of which is to keep the support of the Wanax Ganton.

  “Ganton feels much more secure on his throne now that he has a male heir, but he always remembers that his father lost his crown by ignoring the advice and the interests of his nobles, and he’s determined not to make that mistake. As a practical matter he hasn’t much choice. Any of his nobility who get su
fficiently annoyed can always side with the High Rexja Toris when the war with the Five Kingdoms begins.

  “Meanwhile, Captain Galloway does what he can with the Mounted Archers and the Guards. This is not much, because the Mounted Archers ultimately follow him because he is War Leader of Tamaerthon, and the Guards because he is Great Captain General of the Realm of Drantos. Were he to lose either post, he might have some difficulty commanding the allegiance of anyone not sworn to him as Eqeta of Chelm.”

  Agzaral’s companion chuckled. “Not entirely unlike Council politics, my friend.”

  “Precisely. It is one reason I find Tran such a fascinating place.” Agzaral adjusted the gain on the viewer.

  “War with the Five Kingdoms is inevitable. In my opinion it will come next year. The High Rexja has recovered from the Sarakos war, and commands considerable resources. He has a popular and damned competent leader in Crown Prince Strymon of Ta-Meltemos. Strymon’s armies turned back the Westmen quite effectively. There are still a lot of Westmen, but I doubt they can make much trouble for a couple of years.”

  “Victory feeds victory,” Agzaral said. “The High Rexja has a leader and a proven army. He will certainly use it.”

  “The weapons I delivered on this trip could be decisive, but Galloway won’t trust many locals with modern weapons.”

  “Wise of him,” Agzaral’s companion said.

  “He hasn’t got enough mercenaries, and now they’re growing surinomaz in several places besides the fields around Armagh. That all has to be defended, along with the stockpiled food and the bricks of processed surinomaz.”

  The robed man frowned. “I think that is not all Captain Galloway may care to defend.”

  “Perhaps not,” Agzaral replied.

  “—more decisive will be the role of the two northern city-states, Nikeis and Margilos. Nikeis will surely be neutral. Most of their trade depends on peace with the Five Kingdoms. So does their mainland rice crop.

  “Margilos will probably stay neutral, but may ask a high price. They haven’t forgotten that the Drantos-Roman alliance drove the Westmen north and forced the Margilans to fight a sharp campaign against them. They bear no love for the Five Kingdoms and never have, but Drantos has most recently offended them.”