Suddenly the Saxon advance lunged forward at a run. Spears and throwing axes would come seconds before the two front lines clashed bodily. As the yards between them quickly shrank, Terri surged forward with the front line of the Britons. The impact of striking shields sent a shock up and down the line. At first, the advantages of gravity and fresh breath carried Terri’s line hard against the Saxons and pushed them back. As the Saxon line steadied. Wendell kept an anxious eye on the second line. Again, she would feel great temptation to throw them forward, but it was too early.
Slowly, the thrust of Saxon numbers began to push the line of combat up the hill. Behind them, the Saxon reserves followed restlessly, allowing their colleagues space to move, but little else. They gained the ground slowly, and Wendell judged that the cost was just slightly greater for the enemy. That would do for the moment.
The first line of Britons gradually backed into the second. The two merged and held. With renewed spirit, the new combined line even carried forward again and down the slope for a short time.
There was one more line to the rear of that.
Wendell studied the lay of the land again, finding the best paths for his three cavalry charges—to each flank of the enemy, and to its rear. When the Brittany Annal had first surfaced, deep in some Prankish stone cellar, it had proved to be an eleventh-century copy of a Celtic monk’s personal journal. He had originally written in the mid-sixth century, when the memory of Mount Badon was alive but a generation old. Afraid that the glory of Artorius’s victory would be forgotten, he had described the location and mechanics of the entire confrontation in great detail. Its reliability was accepted slowly, but its authenticity was verified by chemical analysis, and the content meshed completely both with known facts and learned conjecture. What the copy was doing in Brittany remained a mystery. The battle itself, almost identical to Cannae, was even closer to a pure theoretical example of that technique because of the Saxon need to advance up the slope for strategic objectives and because of their lack of cavalry. Wendell picked out his routes carefully, and felt Richard nod agreement.
The line of struggle began to recede up the slope once again. Wendell shifted in his seat and took a deep breath. The time for cavalry was coming, and Terri’s positioning and execution so far had been nearly perfect. Quickly, Wendell cast about for any surprises, any twists that their opponents might have in readiness, but he could think of none. Their chances of winning lay not so much in besting Artorius and the Britons as in besting their actual Saxon predecessors.
“That won’t be hard,” said Richard. “If they save almost anyone, they’ll have done better.”
Wendell watched the struggle stretched across the slope with rising tension. Slowly, grudgingly, fiercely, Terri’s line fell back and back. They held good formation, and the final line of reserves stiffened in readiness. All at once, Terri brought the front line back sharply, in an ordered retreat, and they melted into the rear line. As the Saxons continued forward, the one solid line of Britons fell hard down upon them again, and Wendell nodded in admiration. Victory was procured by compiling small moves, like this emphasizing the advantage of the slope. The Saxon line faltered and was forced back one more time.
“Here they come,” thought Wendell, with a smile of anticipation. The Britons were pressing forward more quickly than before, with both psychological and gravitational momentum. The Saxon reserves could not back away, for fear of losing morale. So, as the line of combat came back down the slope into them, Terri was effectively forcing them into play before they wanted to go. “That’s the way.”
The Saxon reserves, greatly outnumbering the final line of Britons that was already in the struggle, were ordered forward. Once fully committed, they would have trouble turning to meet the charges of the cavalry. Grudgingly, the massive rear lines of the enemy came forward.
“Not yet,” said Richard, sternly.
Intensely anxious, Wendell gave the signal. Trumpets sounded, and a third of the cavalry squads began to move on each flank of the battle.
“No!” yelled Richard. “Too soon, stop it. Hold.”
“Too late,” Wendell tossed back, without regret. Artorius began to take the final third of cavalry around the right flank, high on the shoulder of Mount Badon itself, at a fast trot. Their target was the Saxon rear, for the final blow.
Meanwhile, the heavy cavalry came charging down past the flanks of their own Briton line and took the Saxons hard on each side. The sheer weight and momentum of the charges carried them deep into what was becoming a blunt, curved mass of Saxons, with both flanks turned to form a horseshoe shape.
“Look, will you? Stop,” Richard hissed. “Can’t you see?” Wendell stared. He had not allowed the Saxon reserves enough time to engage Terri’s force. Although they had taken tremendous losses from the initial attack, they were wheeling about to maintain their curved lines, forming the horseshoe with its open end facing back toward their own south. Instead of smashing the Saxon center and pinching out the strength that pushed against the Briton shield wall, the two cavalry wings had simply realigned the struggle. The Saxon center still advanced in good order against Terri’s line, and threatened to punch through.
“Attack. Straight down the slope,” Richard ordered. “Go.”
Wendell hesitated, then continued to push his squads farther on his own chosen path. “Their rear is still vulnerable. We’ll hurry and—
“No time, fool. Charge now, before anything changes. Hit the center. Fast.” Richard’s voice ended in a falsetto note. “Go.”
Terri’s line had no more reserves. The Saxon center pushed onward, forcing the Britons slowly toward the crest of the slope. If the Saxons attained the crest, all the mechanics of the battle would alter drastically, to their benefit. Wendell rushed his cavalry squads into a canter toward the far downward slope of Mount Badon.
“No!” Richard yelled again.
Wendell lurched forward suddenly in the seat with a wave of nausea. He momentarily lost his bearings and his grip on the keyboard. Badly shaken, he looked up at the screen, fighting panic. The keyboard was slick with sweat under his fingers.
“GARG’N UAIR DHUISGEAR,” screamed Richard. As Wendell stared at the screen and pounded the keyboard, the cavalry broke from the path across Mount Badon and charged at full gallop for the enemy’s flank.
The alert cavalry squads already on the field saw them coming and expertly parted to let them pass.
Wendell stared wide-eyed at the screen, clutching and punching at the keys. The units ignored him. In his mixture of panic and reflex, he couldn’t tell if the keyboard wasn’t functioning right or if his own hands were out of control.
“Garg’n uair dhuisgear,” echoed again and again in Wendell’s mind. The cavalry reserves thundered through the opened ranks of their comrades and crashed through to the heart of the Saxons. The tremendous power of the charge crushed the enemy center, and the other cavalry squads renewed their rushes on both sides of the collapsing Saxon horseshoe.
Wendell looked back at Terri’s line. They were holding fast, relieved of the intense pressure of greater numbers. Stability was needed now, and simple attrition. Confidence would sustain them.
Two squads of cavalry split off from the right flank, and swung wide around the struggling mass. They wheeled at the base of Mount Badon, and charged into the enemy rear. The Saxons were surrounded, jammed together, and partially divided into separate bands.
The outcome was decided.
“Victory Conditions, Britain,” appeared on the screen. Wendell collapsed back in his seat, ignoring the statistics that were listed under the crucial phrase. He was soaked in sweat and sick to his stomach. Breathing heavily, he let his head roll to one side to see Terri. She was damp and flushed. As he watched, she brushed matted curls of hair from her eyes and smiled at him weakly. The attendants arrived, to help them into the back rooms. Wendell waved his away, gesturing a need to catch his breath.
“Made it,” he thought. “Con
gratulations.”
No answer. Wendell was too exhausted to wonder about it. He watched Terri leave the room on the arm of one attendant, while several more tried to keep back the crowd of excited spectators. The only voice in his mind was his own.
“Well,” he thought, as his strength gradually gathered.
“Gone, huh?” There was no doubt that Richard had won this game—the prodigy still reigned. “Wherever you are, congratulations, anyhow.”
Far below the city, in a cavern edged with blue-white frost, the gangling body lay unmoving. The tank sparkled in the pale light. Deep within the silent cranium, a spark began to glow.
Wendell lay back in the seat, motionless, looking at the frozen screen without seeing it. He had tread too long on the subtle interface where dreams and dreams threatened to merge. His eyes suddenly focused on the screen, and he thought again of the phosphorous shine and its ethereal universe. Those lives belonged to the dead, but they had thrown a millennial shadow.
Editor's Introduction to:
CINCINNATUS
by Joel Rosenberg
Livy tells the story of the stern Roman patriarch called from retirement to lead Rome’s armies and save the state. He might have had the crown from the hands of the Senate, but instead he returned to his land and his plow. Cincinnati, Ohio, is named in his memory.
The Order of the Cincinnatus was an association of regular officers of the Continental Army. After their victory over England, the Continental officers thought to influence the course of events in this land: they offered George Washington the crown.
Of course they had no authority to create a monarchy, but it was probably in their power to grant it. Certainly there was no other force on this continent that could have stood up to the Continental Army. On the other hand, they could only offer it to Washington: there was assuredly no general in the New World who could have faced him. When Washington refused, the matter was at an end.
The story of Cincinnatus has inspired many science fiction stories.
CINCINNATUS
by Joel Rosenberg
The log cabin was drafty, and cold; I moved a bit closer to the open fireplace, and took a deep draught from the stone tankard. It was real Earth coffee, black and rich.
The old man chuckled, as though over some private joke.
“What the hell is so funny?” I didn’t bother to keep the irritation out of my voice. I’d travelled for over seven hundred hours to reach Thellonee and find Shimon Bar-El; and every time I’d try to bring up the reason I’d come from Metzada, the old bastard would just chuckle and change the subject, as though to tell me that we’d discuss business at his pleasure, not mine.
“You are what is so funny. Tetsuki. Nephew.” Bar-El sat back in his chair, shaking his head. He set his mug down, and rubbed at his eyes with arthritis-swollen knuckles. It’s kind of strange, that: I bear the first name of one of our Nipponese ancestors—Tetsuo Nakamura, my g’g’g’g’g’grandfather—but he has the epicanthic folds. Me, I look like a sabra.
“And why am I so funny? Uncle?” You traitor. There isn’t a nastier word in the language than that. Metzada is dependent on credits earned offworld by the Metzadan Mercenary Corps, the MMC, and that depends on our reputation. There hadn’t been any proof that Bar-El had taken a payoff on Oroga; if there had, he would have been hanged, not cashiered and exiled.
Although, the argument could be made that hanging would have been kinder—but, never mind that, the suspicion alone had been enough to strip him of rank and citizenship.
I would have given a lot if we didn’t need him now.
“Well,” he said, setting his mug down and rubbing at the knuckles of his right hand with the probably just-as-arthritic fingers of his left, “you’ve been here all day; and you haven’t asked me if I really did take that payoff.” He cocked his head to one side, his eyes going vague. “I can remember when that was of some importance to you, Inspector General.” The accent on Inspector was a dig. Unlike Bar-El, I’ve always been a staff officer; the only way I could get my stars was through the IG rank— there simply aren’t any other generals in the MMC that don’t command fighting forces.
“I… don’t really care. Not anymore.” I had trouble getting the next words out. “Because we’ve come up with a way for you to earn your way back home.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I doubt that. You’ve never understood me, Tetsuo Hanavi—but I can read you. Like a book. There’s a contract that’s come up, right?”
“Yes, and—
“Shut up while I’m speaking. I want to show you how well I know you—it’s a low-tech world, correct?”
I shrugged. “That’s your specialty, isn’t it?”
He smiled. “And why do I think I’m so smart? Let me tell you more about the contract. It’s high pay, and tough, and it looks like there’s no way to do whatever the locals are paying the MMC to do.”
I nodded. “Right. And we’re short of low-tech specializing general officers. Gevat is off on Schriftalt; Kinter and Cohen are bogged down on Oroga; and my brother’s still home, recovering from the Rand Campaign. So—
Concern creased his face. “Ari’s hurt?”
“Not too badly. He took a Jecty arrow in the liver. It’s taking a while to regenerate, but he’ll make it.”
He nodded. “Good. He’s a good man. Too good to be wasted on quelling the peon revolts.” Bar-El snorted. “Did you know that Rand was settled by a bunch of idiots who wanted to get away from any kind of government?”
I didn’t, actually. I’d just assumed that the feudocracy there had always been there. Ancient history bores me. “No—but we’re getting off the subject.” I spread my hands. “The point is, that you’re the only one who’s ever generated a low-tech campaign who’s available.”
He pulled a tabstick out of a pocket, and puffed it to life. “If I’m available. What’s in it for me?”
I tapped at my chest pocket. “I’ve got a Writ of Citizenship here. If you can salvage the situation, you can go home.” I waved my hand around the room. “Unless you prefer this… squalor.”
He sat silently for a moment, puffing at his tabstick. “You’ve got my commission in another pocket?”
“A temporary one, yes.” I shook my head. “I’m not offering to have you permanently reinstated, traitor.”
Shimon Bar-El smiled. “Good. At least you’re being honest. Who’s the employer?”
“The lowlanders, on—”
“Indess. So, Rivka manipulated them into asking for me.”
“What do you mean?” He was absolutely right, of course, but there was no way that he should have known that. The Primier had kept the negotiations secret; outside of the lowlanders’ representatives, I am the only one who knew how Rivka Effron had suckered them into a payment under-all-contingencies contract, with Bar-El in command.
He shrugged. “I know how her mind works, too. If anyone else were to fail—regardless of what the contract says—it’d be bad for Metzada’s reputation. But, if they’d asked for Bar-El the Traitor, insisted on him—at least, that’s the way the transcript would read—it’d be on their own heads. Right?”
He was exactly right. “Of course not.” But my orders were specific; I wasn’t to admit anything of the sort. Shimon Bar-El was a sneaky bastard—it was entirely possible that our conversation was being taped, despite the poverty of the surroundings.
Bar-El drained the last of his coffee. “I’ll believe what my own mind tells me, not words from a staff officer.” He said that like a curse. “Of course, it’s out of the question. I’m sorry that you had to come such a long way, but I’m happy here. No intention of leaving; not to be the sacrificial lamb.” He set his tankard down. “I don’t bleat any too well.”
“You arrogant bastard.” I stood. “Think you’re unique, that I’ll offer you a permanent commission if you’ll take this one on.” I picked up my bag. “Well, we’re going to take this contract, anyway. The offer’s just too good to pass up—I’
ll handle it myself, if I have to.”
He spat. “Don’t be silly. You don’t have the experience. A lot of soldiers would die, just because—”
“Shut your mouth, traitor. You’re wrong. Maybe I don’t have any field experience, but nobody does, not against cavalry. And—”
“Cavalry? As in horses?”
“No, cavalry as in giant mice—of course it’s horses.”
He chewed on his lower lip. “I don’t see the problem— you just set up your pikemen, let them impale their critters against your line. Take a bit of discipline, even for Metzadans, to hold the line, but—
I sneered. “That’s fine for a meeting engagement, where they have to come to you—but how about a siege? All they have to do is use their cavalry to harass our flanks, and we can’t ever get the towers up. And we’ve got to use towers: there’s no deposits of sulfur available, so there’s no way we can make gunpowder. Not with what the Thousand Worlds will let us bring in. Low-tech world, remember?”
“You’ve got the tech reports in your bag?”
“Of course I—”
“Let me see them.” He held out a hand. “We’re both going to have to study them.”
“Both?” I didn’t understand. Then again, I’ve never understood my uncle.
“Both.” He smiled, not pleasantly. “Me, ’cause I’m taking this. And you, because you get to be my exec.” As I handed him my bag, he took the blue tech report folder out, and started spreading papers around on the floor. “We’re going to get you some field experience, we are.” He studied the sheets silently for a few moments. “I’ll want all the equipment special-ordered, make sure it gets through inspection. You got that, Colonel?”
“Colonel?”
“You just got demoted, nephew. I don’t like to see stars on anybody’s shoulders but mine.” He picked up a topographical map. “Cavalry, eh?
* * *
Fifteen hundred hours later, aboard the Gate complex circling Indess, I hadn’t gotten used to the eagles on my shoulders. I guess it’s kind of petty—hell, I know it is—but I put in seventeen years of service earning my IG’s stars, and the demotion rankled. The trouble was, of course, that we needed Bar-El, and that meant that I had to put up with whatever indignities he cared to inflict. For the time being.
There Will Be War Volume II Page 29