Mamelukes

by Jerry Pournelle

  “Indeed,” Torricelli said, and launched back into his voluble explanation. He spoke far too rapidly for Saxon to follow, but Clavell nodded. Then he turned to Saxon and Haskins.

  “He says this comes from a scout patrol ship from up north,” he said in English. “There are pirates there and they’ve joined up with the naval forces of the Five Kingdoms. A fleet is assembling. A large fleet, of pirates and Five Kingdoms ships, acting together. And because of the alliance with Drantos, the Serene Republic is at war with the Five Kingdoms.”

  Saxon frowned.

  “Fivers and pirates,” Harrison said. “That can’t be good. Ganton’s at war with the Five, and Nikeis is an ally of Ganton. Not so close an ally as they used to be, but I bet it gets a lot closer now that the Signori need us.”

  Torricelli’s distress was obvious. He spoke rapidly in Italian, slowing down when Clavell protested. Saxon couldn’t understand three consecutive words, but after a while Clavell nodded.

  “The Five Kingdoms, a pirate group, and the Grand Duchy of Riccigiona,” Clavell translated.

  “What the hell is that?” Harrison demanded. “I never heard of it.”

  “I have, just barely,” Clavell said. “Small northern outfit. Trees, mountains, seaport, neutral outfit so they tell me. Used to be neutral, anyway. Councilor Torricelli says they have ships and a trained army. Now they’re all in one big alliance, and they’re merging their fleets.”

  Torricelli spoke rapidly again. Clavell nodded.

  “There’s only one goal such an alliance would seek,” he translated.

  “And we’re it?” Saxon asked, and Clavell nodded yet again, his expression unhappy.

  “Looks that way.” He listened as Torricelli spoke again, this time not as rapidly. “Five hundred ships. Possibly more,” Clavell said.

  “That’s not good.”

  “It gets worse,” Clavell said. “It gets a lot worse.”

  “What do you mean?” Saxon demanded.

  “I mean that they’re scared,” Clavell said. “The Signori are scared. Their harbor defenses aren’t so good now, what with the water level rising. Once an enemy gets in the lagoon there’s not much to stop them from coming right to the main island. I hope you brought some ammo, Bart, because it looks like we’re going to need it.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  TARANTO

  Rick was tired and ached all over. Just one more day in the saddle, he thought to himself. His neck and shoulder were acting up as was the pain in his stomach. At least the hemorrhoids were a hell of a lot better, though. God bless Major Baker, and God bless Preparation H!

  While he was being thankful for things, he was also thankful for proper roads, and this one was up to Roman standards. To save time, they’d bypassed most of the road from the fords of the Ottarn to Armagh and only yesterday regained the road from Armagh to Taranto. The ride was smoother now and so he felt fewer jolts as his horse moved at a walk down the road.

  He was listening to a conversation between Warner and Martins to keep his mind off the ride. He could hear an edge of irritation in Warner’s voice after answering Martins’ latest round of questions about Tran, and he chuckled to himself. Martins reminded Rick of a younger Warner, the one abducted by a flying saucer from a hilltop in southern Africa over fourteen years ago.

  “So why were they sending you guys back home?” Warner asked in a bid to change the subject and head off further interrogation.

  “Defense budget cuts,” Martins answered. “After the Cold War was over, Parliament was looking about for spots to save money, and they hit on us. A ‘peace dividend,’ they called it.”

  “The Cold War is over?”

  Rick turned around in his saddle. Martins looked very self-conscious with just about every merc staring at him.

  “Ah, yes,” he said, “the Soviet Union collapsed. After the whole Star Wars thing they just couldn’t keep up. The whole Communist empire collapsed in on itself.”

  “How did a movie cause the Russians to give up?” Warner demanded.

  “It wasn’t the movie.” Martins sounded a bit defensive. “That was the nickname the press used to ridicule a space-based missile defense system proposed by the American President, Ronald Reagan, as infeasible. They used the movie title because they thought the missile defense idea was a joke. Turns out it worked. The Russians went bankrupt trying to keep up.”

  “Wasn’t Ronald Reagan a movie actor?” Mason asked.

  “He was also the Governor of California,” Rick interrupted. “I guess he got promoted.” He looked back at Martins. “So there was no nuclear exchange? No World War Three? No fight in Europe?”

  “There were some proxy fights in Central America, Afghanistan, Africa, places like that,” Martins answered, then blushed. “Ah, I suppose you chaps would know a bit more about that than I would, at least in the early days.” Rick nodded gravely, fighting an urge to smile, and the young Brit went on hastily. “But there was no direct combat between NATO and the Warsaw Pact. There was a war after the Cold War came to an end, when Iraq invaded Kuwait and your President Bush and our Prime Minister Thatcher put together a coalition to turn Iraq back out again. Wasn’t much of a fight, though. It simply proved the dominance of the West with their smart bombs and laser sights.” He shrugged. “As I said, the Soviets just couldn’t keep up and the whole Soviet Union went tits up. The West won the Cold War.”

  “Well hot damn!” Rick exclaimed. “Freedom reigns on good old Earth.”

  “Hate to interrupt.” Baker secured his radio as he rode up. “Scouts report a detachment of Roman cavalry approaching from the other direction.”

  A little while later the detachment came around a bend, escorted by Tamaerthan mounted archers.

  “Second Praetorians,” Warner said. “Publius.”

  The Roman troops were led by an ornately armored tribune, clearly a young man of wealth.

  “Hail, Lord Rick, Friend of Caesar and Patrician of Rome!” he shouted. “I am commanded to lead you to the villa we have reserved for your use!”

  “Can’t fault that for a reception,” Major Baker said.

  “Publius Caesar begs haste,” the tribune added. “There are messages of grave concern.”

  “Publius Caesar is here?”

  “He is, Friend of Caesar. He awaits you.”

  Son-of-a-bitch, Rick thought. He’s taking this pretty seriously. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.

  “Perhaps you should ride ahead, Colonel?” Baker suggested. “We’ll get the troops to quarters.”

  Rick thought about that for a moment, then nodded.

  “Sounds good,” he said. “Major Mason will be in command.”

  Baker saluted. “Of course.”

  He sounds cheerful enough, Rick thought. And I have every reason to trust him. So why do I worry? But goddammit I worry about everything. If he stops obeying me, I have no way to command his troops. And he could leave any time he feels like it. I hate this.

  “Warner, Bisso, come with me. Haerther, bring my guards. Let’s ride.” Twenty damned miles. Thank God for Preparation H!

  * * *

  It was late afternoon by the time they reached their destination.

  The walled city of Taranto lay at the head of a bay in the western border territories of the Empire. The harbor with its outlying protection island reminded Rick vaguely of the city of La Paz in Baja California. Taranto was a minor port on the southwestern section of the great bay the Romans called the Inner Sea. The Inner Sea separated the Roman Empire from Drantos and the Five Kingdoms, and Taranto was geographically more a part of Drantos than Rome. Two generations ago Taranto had owed allegiance to Drantos, but during the civil wars the city had looked to Rome for protection and now had been Roman long enough that few cared to dispute Roman ownership.

  And, Rick thought sourly, that’s another border dispute I’ll have to settle before it festers.

  The main part of the city stood on a bluff above the waters. The lower city with
its dock areas would be drowned as the seas rose in the coming years, but the walled part would stay above the new sea level. When the seas inundated the swamps to the south, Taranto would be separated from Rome by water.

  Rick thought about that. Taranto might easily become an important commercial port when the great bay was connected directly to the southern territories. Drantos had never been a maritime power, with no ports or maritime commerce on the Inner Sea, and but little on the southern shore. That would change in the next few years, however. Which meant Taranto might become important and that ownership of the port could easily be a matter of dispute once again. It would be more important to Drantos than to Rome, at least initially, but that too would change. Most of Rome’s naval activities operated out of the eastern coast of the Empire, but the new passageway south would make many eastern Roman ports obsolete. So would the rising water levels. Rome would need ports to her west—but on the west coast, not across the new straits. Drantos needed Taranto. Rome didn’t, or at least not as badly. Perhaps transfer might be negotiated now, while everyone was friendly and the city’s importance was less obvious? One more item to keep in mind.

  And why is it my job to think of all this stuff? he wondered, but there was no one to answer that question.

  * * *

  The large villa stood on a steep hill, two hundred feet above the sea which lay half a mile to the east. A stone wall, twenty feet high, ran along the western boundary of the ten-acre property, and the villa itself had an interior garden with fountain and pool surrounded on three sides by a colonnaded porch. The open side of the garden area gave a magnificent view of the harbor and the sea beyond.

  The harbor was natural, but it had been improved with sea walls and a breakwater surrounding an inner anchorage, and Rick counted nine ships tied up to docks. Others were anchored offshore. Rick counted again, a total of thirty-nine ships including fishing boats. One of the ships was significantly larger than the others. Three-masted and long and sleekly built, it flew Roman banners, and Rick nodded.

  Flagship, he thought. Publius said something about a quinquireme, but that doesn’t look like a classical galley to me. More like something from the Battle of Lepanto. Ram’s higher up, for one thing. They probably settle things mostly by deck fighting by marines, not in classic ancient-world naval warfare like Salamis. They ram to board, not to stave in the other ship.

  Rick studied the ships in the harbor. The sleek ones were warships. The others—Rick counted seven ships that didn’t look like the others. Taller, more rounded, wider and fatter. Bigger for the most part, too, but they seemed to have only a single oardeck each.

  Must be merchant vessels, hold more cargo but slower. What they called “cogs” back home? Of course I’m guessing. Wish I’d read more about medieval naval warfare. The only naval battle I know anything about is Lepanto, and that was gunpowder era. Well, early gunpowder, with cannon on galleases, but there was a hell of a lot of hand-to-hand combat on the decks of the galleys. What I don’t know could get us all killed . . .

  And damn all, I am so sick of that! It’s somebody else’s turn to be in charge. Only there isn’t anyone. He felt the mild burning sensation in his stomach that was becoming a constant companion. Am I getting an ulcer? Ulcer would explain the pain in his stomach, but what was causing the sharp pains in his left shoulder and neck? Fatigue? Something a lot worse than an ulcer? No way to know . . .

  Rick sent Warner on an inspection tour while he found the bathroom, and was impressed by its tiled elegance. There was running water, a continuous stream from a tile pipe. It flowed through a waist-high basin, then drained into an attractively designed commode to disappear through the outer wall. The room smelled of soap and oils.

  “There is a bath in this villa, Patrician,” a male voice said behind him. “Permit me to name myself. I am Appodocius, your body servant for as long as you remain in the Villa San Angelus. My master, Publius, Heir of Caesar, has placed me at your disposal. I am a skilled body servant.”

  Wonder what that means, Rick thought. Masseur? Catamite?

  “Fires for the bath were lit this morning, so the caldarium and tepidarium will both be ready whenever you desire,” Appodocius said.

  “Thank you.” A hot bath. Luxury. Rick turned to look at the newcomer. Appodocius was about thirty. A scar ran from behind his left jaw to disappear into his tunic, and he walked with a limp, but he seemed cheerful enough. Well muscled, had the bearing of a soldier. Slave and body servant, Rick thought. Publius must have good reason to trust him. Well, when in Rome—

  “Publius, Heir of Caesar, is coming to this villa,” Appodocius said. “He will join you as soon as you have rested from your journey. There is important news.”

  Important it may be, Rick thought, but it’s bloody well going to wait an hour while I get cleaned up and use that hot bath!

  * * *

  Rick relaxed in the tepidarium and dreaded leaving it. The shoulder pains were gone, and his stomach felt better than it had for weeks. Good daydreams, too, he thought. Tylara. The kids. Not the nightmares I’ve had the last year. Get this mess done with and get back to her. Live like a human again. Delegate more. Play with my kids. It’s what we all want.

  The reverie was interrupted by a voice from the dressing room.

  “Beg pardon, Skipper, but Publius is here.”

  But first there were more fires to piss on. Rick sat up from the warm water.

  “All right, Mr. Warner, I’ll get dressed. Is everything satisfactory?”

  “And then some, Colonel. House big enough for all the officers, another building big enough to be a barracks and probably has been one, and that big level field outside for a camp. Storerooms with wheat and barley and one room full of potatoes. Small herd of pigs, and some goats. We’ll be fine here.”

  “Nice to be appreciated. You say Publius is here?”

  “Yes, Sir, he’s in the big hall. Big smile, but something’s got him spooked if I’m any judge.”

  * * *

  Publius Caesar wore armor, a muscled breastplate trimmed with polished bronze, too ornate for the field but it would serve at need, and it was subdued compared to what he wore on state occasions.

  “Hail, Friend,” Publius said formally. He gestured for the attendants to pour wine.

  Rick and Larry Warner raised their hands in salute. Roman etiquette strictly forbade bowing between equals and all free men were in theory equal. Unlike the practices of Drantos and the Five Kingdoms, Roman nobles were supposed to be honored for their abilities, not their birth. Rick had shocked everyone the first time he forgot that. Not a drastic mistake, Rick thought. But an error all the same.

  Publius Caesar selected two goblets of wine, drank perfunctorily from one, and passed it to Rick.

  “Hail, Friend Publius,” Rick said with a nod of thanks as he took it. “You will recall my aide Chief Warrant Officer Larry Warner. Friend Publius, I hadn’t expected you to come here yourself.”

  “Nor had I, but the news is disturbing. You must know at once, and I would be thankful for your thoughts on what this means. I have summoned Tribune Caius Julius to tell you what his frumentarii have discovered.” He indicated a younger officer in armor who stood respectfully in the doorway, his helmet under his left arm, and Rick nodded acknowledgement. Sheathed sword, not bound with ribbons. A trusted officer. Most of Publius’ officers were trusted. And two commendation armbands. A competent trusted officer.

  “I’m glad to hear any news,” Rick said. “First I have news of my own. We have new star forces. Three score, with star weapons.”

  Publius frowned.

  “I had heard you had acquired new star forces, but not so many as that.”

  Actually, Rick thought, the rumors they told me you were listening to were that I had hundreds of new riflemen, which accounted for the big victory over Morrone, whose forces were now rumored to have been a thousand and more. Hard to know what Publius really thinks. But he’s beginning to digest the fact that I ha
ve new forces. This has never been an alliance of equals, even if the Romans are developing tactics for dealing with pikes, and almost certainly are working on both cannon and muskets.

  It would be a far less equal alliance now. The sixty Gurkhas were a significant addition to Rick’s force and a great change in the balance of power—as Ganton had witnessed. Publius didn’t seem overly concerned about the news. Good actor, or is he beginning to trust me? Or—

  “We will have need of all those and more, Friend of Caesar,” Publius said. “Begin, Caius Julius.”

  Rick guessed the tribune’s age at about thirty. Like Publius he wore a muscled breastplate with mail short sleeves. There were gold decorations, and gold at the armor’s rim, making the intelligence officer gaudier than Publius. Intelligence advisor to the Son of Caesar would be a position of some power, so the tribune was very likely from a good family. I wonder how he was chosen as an intelligence coordinator, and why he’s trustworthy? I don’t really know a lot about Roman organization policies. I do know their intelligence service is pretty damned good. Except when it comes to Gurkhas . . .

  “Hail, Friend of Caesar,” the tribune began. “I have nothing from Nikeis itself, but much from the land they call Terra Firma.”

  “Nothing from Nikeis itself?”

  “We have had no messages from the islands since the Signory closed their borders and expelled our agents. Messages have been sent, but none have been acknowledged, nor have we observed anyone from the island carrying messages to Wanax Ganton.”

  “And I’ve received no word from Clavell and Harrison, my agents in Nikeis,” Rick said. “No word from them at all, despite repeated messages to the Doge.” Of course you know all that, but I may as well get it on the record.

  Publius nodded gravely.

  “Tell us, then, Tribune, what your men have observed,” he said.

  Rick listened with growing alarm as the tribune described what the Roman spies had learned of the events on the mainland opposite Nikeis. There had been lights in the sky, almost certainly a starship landing. Shortly after those, a wagon train from a nearby forest had come to the port city. It bore three armed star visitors, one a Black man, one a woman. The starship had also left three large boxes of high-quality steel. It had taken eighteen oxen to draw a specially constructed wagon holding one of the boxes along a well-paved road. The Roman accurately described shipping containers.