Foreign Legions

by David Drake

  The Poct'on warriors loomed over their counterparts like moving cliffs. The giant "hyenas" looked like so many puppies before the elephants. Bad-tempered, nasty, snarling puppies, true. But thoroughly intimidated, for all that. Despite the best efforts of their Gha riders, the hyenas were slinking back toward their lines.

  Ainsley could hardly blame them. Even from the remoteness of his televised view, the war elephants were—as Clodius Afer had rightly said—"purely terrifying." These were no friendly circus elephants. They didn't even look like elephants. To Ainsley, they seemed a perfect reincarnation of mammoths or mastodons. The beasts were fourteen feet high at the shoulders, weighed several tons, and had ten-foot-long tusks.

  They also had a temperament to match. The elephants were bugling great blasts of fury with their upraised trunks, and advancing on the hyenas remorselessly.

  "Jesus," whispered Tambo, "even the Gha look like midgets on top of those things. They seem to have them under control, though."

  "I'm telling you," insisted Clodius Afer, "the Gha are wizards at handling the brutes." He snorted. "They always did hate those stinking hyenas, you know. But with elephants and Gha, it was love at first sight."

  Tambo glanced up. "Whatever happened to their own—uh, 'hyenas'? The ones they had on the ship they seized?"

  Gaius whistled soundlessly. Clodius Afer coughed, looked away.

  "Don't rightly know," he muttered. "But Pompilius Niger—he raises bees now, you know, on his farm—told me that Uddumac asked him for a couple of barrels of his home-brewed mead. For a private Gha party, he said."

  Tambo winced. "Don't let the SPCA find out."

  The centurion mumbled something under his breath. Ainsley wasn't sure, but it sounded like "modern sissies."

  "The hyenas are breaking," announced Gaius. "Look at them—they're completely cowed."

  Tambo slapped the heavy wooden table under the viewscreen. The gesture expressed his great satisfaction.

  "It'll be a straight-up fight, now! Between the legion and those—what in the hell are they, anyway? Have you ever seen them before, Gaius?"

  The tribune grinned. So did Clodius Afer.

  "Oh, yes," he murmured. "These boys were the opposition in our very first Guild campaign."

  "Sorry clowns!" barked the centurion. "Look at 'em, Gaius—I swear, I think those are the same wagons they were using two thousand years ago."

  The Ty'uct mercenaries started their wagon charge. Clodius Afer watched them on the screen for a few seconds before sneering: "Same stupid tactics, too. Watch this, professor! These galloping idiots are about to—"

  He scowled. "Well, if they were facing a real Roman legion."

  Deep scowl. "As it is—against these puling babes—?" Low moan of despair. "It'll be a massacre. A massacre, I tell you."

  "Actually," murmured Gaius, "I think the puling babes are going to do better than we did."

  He glanced over at Tambo, who was sitting to one side of the big screen. The naval officer's eyes were on a complex communication console attached to the viewscanner. "Are we secure?" asked Gaius.

  Tambo nodded. "Yeah, we are. Our ECM has got the Federation's long-distance spotters scrambled. Everything in the castle is out of their viewing capability."

  He sat up, sneering. "And, naturally, the lazy galactics never bothered to send a personal observer. Even if they shuttle one down now, it'll be too late. The battle'll be over before they get here."

  "Good." Gaius turned and whistled sharply. A moment later, several natives appeared in the main doorway to the great hall. Gaius gestured, motioning for them to enter.

  Somewhat gingerly, the natives advanced into the room and approached the small knot of humans at the viewscreen.

  "You watch now," said Gaius, in simple Latin.

  "Is safe from Federation?" asked one of the natives, also in Latin. Ainsley recognized him. The Fourth-of-Five, that one was called. He was a member of the clan's central leadership body, as well as the clan's warchief.

  "Safe," assured Gaius. "They can not see you here with"—he groped for a moment, in the limits of the simplified language—"high-raised arts. But must keep this secret. Not tell them. Not tell anyone."

  "Secret be keep," said the Fourth-of-Five. Still a bit gingerly, the warchief leaned forward to examine the scene on the scanner.

  "Battle start?"

  "Yes," replied Gaius. "Now you watch. I explain what we do. Why we do."

  * * *

  Two minutes later, the battle was joined in earnest. As it unfolded, Gaius followed the action with a running commentary for the benefit of the Fourth-of-Five, explaining the methods and principles of Roman tactics. The warchief was an attentive student. A very knowledgeable one, too, who asked many pointed and well-aimed questions. His own people had never been slouches, when it came to warfare; and now, hidden miles away in a forest camp, the warchief's own native legion had already begun its training.

  Commander Tambo watched some of the battle, but not much. He was a naval officer, after all, for whom the tactics of iron-age land warfare were of largely academic interest. He was much more concerned with keeping a careful eye on the ECM monitors. By allowing the natives to follow the battle with the help of modern technology, the humans were breaking the letter of Federation law.

  The spirit of that law, of course, they were trampling underfoot with hobnailed boots.

  Ainsley simply watched the battle. Quite transfixed, he was; oblivious to everything else.

  Ironically, his interest was purely academic. But it was the monomaniacal interest of a man who had spent all but the last few years of his adult life studying something which he was now able to see unfold before his own eyes. A Roman legion in action.

  A purist, of course, would have been outraged.

  Such a purist, in his own way, was the legion's expert consultant and field trainer, the former centurion Clodius Afer. Throughout the course of the battle, Clodius Afer danced back and forth between the viewscreen and the far wall, to whose unfeeling stones he wailed his black despair.

  Roman legion, indeed!

  Smiling, Ainsley leaned over and whispered to Gaius: "Is the rumor true? Did Clodius Afer really call Colonel Tsiang a 'slant-eyed bastard'?"

  Gaius grinned, though his eyes never left the screen. He was keeping a close watch on the legate commanding the legion, in order to provide him with expert consultation after the battle.

  That legate was a former colonel in the Chinese Army. Of the ten tribunes commanding the legion's cohorts, four were Chinese, three North American, one German, one South African and one Pakistani. True, there was one Italian centurion, and three Italian file-closers. But the overall national and racial composition of the legion was a fair reflection of modern Earth's demographics, except that it was skewed toward Chinese and North Americans. This, for the simple reason that all the legionnaires were former soldiers, and only the North Americans and Chinese still maintained relatively large standing armies.

  "Oh, yes," murmured Gaius. "Fortunately, Tsiang's a phlegmatic kind of guy. Good thing for Clodius. The colonel has a black belt in at least five of the martial arts."

  He turned his head. "You might want to watch this, Clodius Afer! They're getting ready for the first volley of javelins!"

  Two seconds later, the former centurion's face was almost pressed to the screen. "They'll screw it up," he groaned. "Damned amateurs think they're throwing darts in a tavern."

  Silence ensued, for a few seconds. Then:

  Gaius grinned. Clodius Afer scowled and stalked off. Robert Ainsley hissed, face pale.

  "God in Heaven," he whispered shakily. "I had no idea."

  The former tribune's grin faded. "A good javelin volley is like the scythe of death, Robert. It's pure butchery."

  "Was this one good?"

  "As good as you'll ever see. I knew it would be."

  Ainsley studied Gaius for a moment.

  "You've never shared Clodius Afer's skepticism. Why?"
>
  Gaius snorted. "The old bastard's just jealous, that's all."

  The former tribune jabbed his forefinger at the screen. "Every single one of those legionnaires, from the legate down to the last man in the ranks, is a hand-picked volunteer. The cream of the crop—and it was a huge crop of volunteers. Every one's a soldier, and every one's dedicated to this cause. Not to mention the fact that, on average, they're probably half again as strong and twice as fast as the average Roman legionnaire of our time. So why shouldn't they do well?"

  Ainsley rubbed his chin. "It's still their first real battle."

  Gaius shrugged. "True. And it shows." He nodded at the screen.

  "They're sluggish, right now. They're not reacting as quickly as they should to the success of their javelin volley. That's inexperience. A blooded legion would already be down the enemy's throat. But—see? Tsiang's already bringing the line forward. Good formations, too. The spacing's excellent."

  He glanced over his shoulder at the figure of Clodius Afer, wailing against the wall.

  "Clodius forgets. How good do you think we were in the beginning? A bunch of ignorant kids, half of us. Marched off to slaughter in the desert and then sold to aliens. I had no idea what I was doing, at first. This legion's already doing well. Give them three more campaigns and they could have chopped us up for horse meat."

  He turned back to the screen. "Trust me, Robert. There's never been a better Roman legion than the one down there on that field today."

  Again, he cocked his head and bellowed at Clodius Afer. "They've almost closed with the enemy! Oh—and look! The Tenth Cohort's going to bear the brunt of it!"

  "That bitch!" shrieked Clodius Afer, charging back to the screen. "She's going to get 'em all killed!"

  Silence, for two full minutes. Then:

  Gaius laughed. Clodius Afer spit on the floor and stalked back to the wall. Spit on the wall. Ainsley wiped his face.

  "I thought the Tenth Cohort was supposed to be the legion's shield, not its sword arm," he muttered.

  Gaius's grin was cold, cold. "Yeah, that's the tradition. But traditions are meant to be broken, you know. And Tribune Lemont is not the phlegmatic type."

  "Is it true?" whispered Ainsley. "Did Clodius Afer really call Shirley Lemont a—"

  Gaius laughed. "Oh, yes! Then, after he woke up, he insisted on a formal rematch. He didn't quit until she threw him six times running, and told him she was going to start breaking his puny little bones."

  Ainsley stared at Clodius Afer. The former centurion was studying the stone wall with a deep interest which seemed entirely inappropriate to its bare, rough-hewn nature.

  "I guess it took him by surprise, seeing women in the legion's ranks."

  Gaius started to reply but broke off suddenly, rising halfway out of his seat. "Gods, look at them rolling up the flank! This battle's already won, Robert." Turning his head, he bellowed:

  "Hey, Clodius Afer! You might want to see this! The enemy's pouring off the field! The legion's hammering 'em into mash! And—guess what?—great news! It's our old Tenth Cohort that turned their flank! God, what a maneuver! I'm telling you, Clodius Afer—that Shirley Lemont's the best tribune I've ever seen! Come here! You don't want to miss it!"

  In the next five minutes, Gaius Vibulenus went over the battle with the Fourth-of-Five, patiently answering the native warleader's many questions. Robert Ainsley simply sat, recovering from the experience—simultaneously exhilarating and horrifying—of finally seeing the Roman war machine in action.

  Clodius Afer leaned his head against the stone wall. Banged it once or twice. Wept bitter tears for the lost legacy of ancient Rome.

  Ruined—ruined—by modern sissies. Girls.

  XIV

  As he watched the troop transport settle its enormous bulk into the valley, Ainsley found it impossible not to grin.

  "Travelling in style, I see," he chuckled.

  Gaius gave him a stern look. "I beg your pardon? The Cato is an official SPQR Guild transport vessel, properly registered as such with the Federation authorities."

  Ainsley snorted. "She's also the former Queen Elizabeth, luxury liner."

  Gaius grinned. "So? It could be worse, you know. They're already talking about raising the Titanic and retrofitting her."

  A voice from behind them: "It's already been decided. Damn fools are going to do it."

  The two men turned to face Tambo. The naval officer was just climbing off the stairs onto the stone ramp behind the castle's crenellations. A few steps behind him came the Second-of-Five.

  The South African and the native clan leader joined them at the battlements. Tambo scowled.

  "I think it's pure foolishness, myself. The whole point of refitting old naval vessels is to re-arm the Earth as fast as possible. Stupid. It'll take twice as long—and twice the money—to fix up that shipwreck than it would to build a brand-new transport."

  Ainsley's reply was mild. "Humans are a bit swept up in historical sentiment, you know. All things considered, I have to say I'm rather in favor of it."

  Tambo grimaced but didn't argue the point. Instead he went straight to his business.

  "I've just gotten word from the escort vessels. The Federation ship and the Guild transport have left the system, so there are no observers left. The colonists can debark before the legion boards the transport."

  "Any threats?" asked Gaius.

  "From the Ty'uct?" sneered Tambo. "Not likely—not after we smeared their second invasion fleet in less time than the first. No, no threats. But they are definitely in a foul mood after yesterday's whipping. They're complaining about the elephants."

  Gaius shrugged. "Let 'em! Elephants were a regular feature of Roman warfare."

  "Not genetically engineered semi-mastodons," pointed out Ainsley.

  Again, Gaius shrugged. "So what? The Guild can hardly complain—not when their Gha ride mounts that have to be turbocharged to even breathe the air."

  Tambo smiled. "They're still going to complain about it. Demand a full Federation hearing, they say." His smile broadened. "God, would I love to be there! Did you hear? Mai the Merciless has been appointed Earth's official representative to the Federation."

  "Heaven help them," murmured Ainsley. Then:

  "I thought you were going to be there."

  Tambo's smile was now an outright grin. "Change of orders." He squared his shoulders. Struck a solemn pose.

  "You have the honor of being in the presence of the newly appointed commodore in charge of Flotilla Seven."

  The false pomposity vanished, replaced by a cheerful rubbing of his hands. "The campaign against the Ssrange is on! And I'm in command!"

  Ainsley's eyes widened. "They decided to do it? I thought—"

  Tambo shook his head. "No, it seems good sense won out over timidity, after all. Christ, I should hope so! We've got a tiger by the tail. Last thing we can afford to do is let go. If the Guilds and the Federation ever figure out how vulnerable we are—will be, for at least twenty years—they could slaughter us. Keep the bastards cowed—that's the trick!"