Janissaries

2

He was awakened at dawn, as he'd ordered, but the cavalry screen reported no signs of movement in the Roman camp. Rick sent out another scouting force and tried to return to bed; after half an hour he knew it was no use and went out to see that the troops all had a hot breakfast. Wellington had insisted on hot meals the morning of Waterloo, and always believed the biscuit and "stirabout" had as much to do with his victory as anything else.

If the Romans attacked early, the sun would be in his archers' eyes. There wasn't anything he could do about that except worry.

The camp was deathly still. It wasn't the silence of professional soldiers confident in their abilities. There were sporadic murmurs, small jokes that normally would have brought belly laughs, speculations about various women, even some attempts to cheer, but each conversation died away to silence again.

"They're scared, Cap'n," Mason said. "I can feel it."

"Me too."

"It's the waitin'," Mason said. He squinted to the east. "Almost wish they'd come and get it over with, even if it'd be better with the sun higher."

"They'll be here soon enough. Walk around a lot. Look mean and be sure they see your rifle."

Mason grinned. "Won't show 'em the bandolier, though."

"This won't be our only battle," Rick warned. "Don't shoot yourself dry." He hesitated. "If everything comes apart, I'll try to get Tylara out. The Romans will try to cut us off from the road back. If I can get to that first villa we sacked, I'll wait for you there as long as I can. You do the same."

"Right. I wouldn't worry so much, Cap'n."

"Don't you worry?"

"Don't get paid to worry. That's what officers are for."

The true sun was half high and the Firestealer three hands above the horizon when the scout messenger rode in. The legion was coming.

"All of them?" Rick asked. "How are they formed?"

"They are all together," the scout reported. "They come in two large groups. The one on their left is slightly ahead of the other one."

"And where is the lady Tylara?"

"As you commanded, she is retreating from them but keeping them in sight. She will send messengers if they divide their force."

"Excellent," Rick said. He turned to Drumold. "Sound the battle horns."

The Tamaerthon hill people were obviously of Celtic origin, and Rick had expected them to have bagpipes; but either their ancestors had been from a group that didn't use them, or the art had been lost during the centuries on Tran. Instead they employed a long, curled horn that looked something like a thin tuba. At Drumold's wave, these sounded, and the camp followers began the rattle of drums. The pikemen and archers ran to their weapons.

Rick climbed to the roof of the villa. It would be better for morale if he were with the ranks, but he couldn't afford courageous gestures. More than one battle had been lost because the commander didn't know what was happening to all his forces. The staff officers he'd chosen to keep with him didn't like being up there either, but he'd stressed the importance of communications until at least a few of them understood how vitally he'd need messengers whose orders would be obeyed.

His view to the east was partly obscured by low hills, but from the vantage point of the roof he could just see the scarlet and yellow pennants of his light cavalry. They had stopped at the brow of the hill and were looking at something beyond. He tried to pick out Tylara, but the distance was too great. He felt a momentary panic. Suppose she'd been caught by the Romans? But there was no point in worrying about that now.

The First Pikes were moving nicely into formation, a rectangle 125 men wide by 8 deep. The Swiss had formed their pikemen into precise square blocks, but he had too broad a front to cover for that. As he watched, they grounded arms, acting nearly in unison. That way they wouldn't be exhausted when the combat began.

What looked like a forest of pikes came up just in front of him as the two thousand men of the Second presented pikes. The binoculars let him see individual troopers. They looked nervous. Well, so was he. Here came the archers to take their places among the checkerboard of sharpened stakes that marked their position. Their ranks were nowhere near as geometrical as the pikemen. They weren't supposed to be. If those heavy cavalrymen ever got among the archers to melee in hand-to-hand fighting, the battle would be over.

He shifted back to the horizon. His light cavalry were facing him now, and riding like hell. He raised the binoculars in time to see the first of the enemy come over the low hills twelve hundred meters away.

The Romans trotted toward them like an armored flood. Tylara had no difficulty getting the light cavalry force to simulate panic. The problem would have been to hold them once the Roman horses broke into a trot. It looked as if nothing could stop that steel tide.

They rode hard, past the First and Second Pikes and down the cleared lanes leading to the villa. Their horses were lathered before they were inside their own lines. Tylara had deliberately stayed in front, and now when she reined in, the others halted. Some of them might not have. One cavalry group-Rick called it a "platoon," a strange word-would go on south beyond the slave barracks to warn of any Roman attempt to circle the woods and attack from behind, but Rick had stressed the importance of halting first to demonstrate that they weren't really running away.

Once again she marveled at the details he thought of. Nothing seemed too trivial for him to worry about. Any good chieftain inspected his clan's weapons, but Rick looked at their boots and sleeping cloaks as well. Who would have thought of bringing spades? Or grindstones? Or of having special details to bring in wood for cooking fires? Without him they'd be lost. He was right to stay on the roof of the villa instead of at the forefront of the clans. He wasn't afraid of battle, no matter what some of the young warriors said.

She dismounted at the villa steps. Just in front, her brother sat his horse with their father's banner, surrounded by their few armored cavalrymen. Tylara grinned to herself as she went up the stairs to the roof. These proud young men might protest that their place was at the forefront of the battle, but now that they'd seen the Romans, they didn't look so eager to charge out.

Rick was looking through his far-seeing glass. Binoculars. She'd have to remember that word. She went to the parapet to join him. His smile warmed her.

"How close did you get?" Rick asked.

"Longbow shot. They carry short bows, and we did not want to be closer."

"You're learning," Rick said. He muttered to himself in his strange language, then spoke in hers, but still more to himself than to her. "Lances and swords. No shields."

"Why have they halted?"

"Dressing ranks," Rick said. "But mostly they're hoping we'll break formation and come after them." He turned to a staff officer. "Go out to each regiment. Make certain the commanders understand that the Romans may charge and then act as if they're running away. They want us to scatter. If we take that bait, they'll cut us down. The first man I see breaking formation without orders, I'll shoot down from here."

"I had better take that message myself," Tylara said. "The clansmen will not like to hear it."

"They've heard it before, and I'll need you here. Get moving, Duhnhaig. And come back when you've told them."

The sept chief looked curiously to Tylara. She smiled thanks and gestured him on his way. "You speak roughly to important chiefs," she told Rick when Duhnhaig was gone.

"God damn it-no. Sorry. You're right. It's my fault if we lose no matter why. That's why I need you with me. I can handle the Romans-it's our own troops I have to worry about."

There was a blare of horns from the Roman ranks. They had formed into two massive blocks, each ten ranks deep, horsemen knee to knee, their lances with pennants held high. The trumpets blared again, but there was no movement.

They were answered by the drums of the clan women, and the shriller sound of Tamaerthon war horns.

Prefect Marselius cursed silently. He had hoped the barbarians would either charge him or break and run, and they weren't doing either. More and more he was certain that a Roman officer led them. He'd never heard of hill tribes standing in regular formation to wait for an attack.

Those blocks of spearmen looked remarkably steady, too. Over the centuries Rome had worked out tactics to deal with any situation. Standard practice when opposing standing spears was to come to extreme bow range and gall them with arrows until they charged, then cut them down with swords.

That wouldn't work here. He could see all too many archers formed behind those ditches and stakes, and he'd had experience with those hillmen's longbows. They outranged anything a horse archer could carry, and an exchange of archery fire would cost far more than it gained.

Standard tactics against archers was a charge with lance. You rode as hard as you could and lost some men getting in among them; but once there, the battle was over. If they were mixed in with spearmen, as they often were, you did the same thing. If they'd planted stakes and other obstacles, several centuries would dismount and cut a path for the rest.

The tactical writers hadn't considered the situation of mixed blocks of archers and spears. Marselius had never heard of such a situation. But then he'd never heard of barbarians penetrating this deep and waiting for a battle, or of having cavalry screens that kept watch on him from camp to battlefield.

"The men grow restless," his senior legate said.

"Let them. Leave time for fear to grow among our enemies."

"We also tire the horses."

True enough. An armored man was a heavy burden, even for a war-horse. The longer they were saddled and still, the slower they'd be in the charge. "Sound trumpets," Marselius ordered. "Play false calls. Marching music."

The cornu blared out, to be answered from the barbarian camp by their own horns and drums. That, at least, was standard. The hillmen's women rattled tom-toms incessantly. It was said to be a form of supplication to their barbarous gods.

He reviewed the situation again, reconsidering his decision not to send any of his force around either the lake or the forest to fall on the tribesmen from behind. The moral effect of an attack from the rear was often devastating, but he suspected these barbarians wouldn't be shaken by it. Anyway, in that mass of irrigation ditches south of the villa, his cavalry would be worthless. It wasn't worth the cost of dividing his legion.

He could withdraw. Shadow the tribesmen, wait to catch them in the open. The legates would not care for that-it smacked of fear. And although in the open the barbarians would be the more easily defeated, more of them would also get away. No. They must be taught not to invade the Empire.

There was one other factor. The villa had not been burned. A bold stroke now would return it intact to Sempronius's family-perhaps even rescue the patrician alive. Instead of hatred there might be gratitude from Caesar's relative.

They must attack while the horses were still fresh. There was nothing to be gained by waiting. He stood in his stirrups. "Sound the calls for a charge with lance," he ordered.