Debt of Ages (29 page)

In the armies of China's Warring States, Artorius had told him, the loaders had lain on their backs, braced both feet against the back of the bow with one on each side of the stock, and pulled the string down toward the chest with both hands while straightening the legs. That wasn't absolutely necessary with these crossbows, which weren't as stiff as the Chinese originals had been. But experiments had shown it to be the fastest loading technique, so Ecdicius had rammed it through past all the obstacles outraged conservatism could erect.

Of course, it made for an immobile formation. Artorius had expounded from historical knowledge that now extended far beyond his old horizons. "There's an ongoing debate," he'd told Sarnac over wine one night in Rome. "What would have happened if Alexander the Great had advanced eastward to China? One school of thought holds that he wouldn't have stood a chance against the armies of the Warring States, with their massed crossbows that could have made colanders of Macedonian shields. I disagree, partly because he would have had no trouble finding local allies—those warlords were incapable of uniting against a common threat, which was why Shih Huang-Ti conquered them all in the end. But there's a strictly military reason as well. You see, all that firepower was locked into rigid, inflexible formations. The only really mobile troops were the cavalry, who were just scouts and skirmishers; they had nothing like Alexander's Companions, who were the closest thing to heavy shock cavalry before stirrups. I have a theory about that: in the West, the cavalry has always been the prestige arm, through which the aristocracy displayed its prowess, while Chinese cavalry was just . . . just . . ."

"Grunts on horses," Sarnac had suggested.

"Precisely. If anything, the cavalry was socially tainted by the barbarian origins of its equipment, techniques and, frequently, personnel. So while an army of the Warring States could have slaughtered the Macedonian phalanx if Alexander had been obliging enough to march it up in front of them, they wouldn't have known how to respond if the Companions had hit them from an unexpected direction."

"That doesn't sound too good for our side, does it? Kai's going to be able to send the Artoriani against us."

"It means that high-density crossbow fire is probably going to work for you only once," Artorius had allowed. "After that, Kai will know how to deal with it. You and Ecdicius are going to have to bring him to a single decisive battle under optimum conditions for a defensive action."

They had tried, even before Ecdicius had thought they were really ready, for they'd heard news of what the invaders were inflicting on east-central Gaul as they advanced west along the Roman road from Strasbourg to Toul, things that sounded nothing like the Kai Sarnac remembered. Finally, Ecdicius had found what he considered the ideal site to give battle—the gap in the Val d'Ane hills west of Toul—and Kai had neatly maneuvered them out of position. It was a typically cautious duel of generals who knew each other, with the main armies moving warily behind screens of scouting, skirmishing light cavalry. Still, Kai's hesitancy was beyond what might have been expected, given that he commanded the clearly superior force. Sarnac had wondered about it out loud via communicator, and Artorius had explained: the Briton led unenthusiastic troops. Kai had been able to hold their allegiance for Wilhelmus, but he couldn't infuse them with a fanatical loyalty to the
faux
emperor which he doubtless didn't feel himself.

So the cat-and-mouse game went on. Ecdicius wasn't entirely displeased; at least the invaders weren't advancing any further into Gaul, and he had more time to polish his new crossbow tactics. In fact, Sarnac was surprised he was adapting so well to a war so different from his swashbuckling norm. But sometimes, when his officers and allies weren't around, he could be seen pacing like a caged lion.

Now he turned from the crossbow practice and started to speak to Sarnac, only to stop a frown. "What is it, Bedwyr? You seem distracted."

God, am I concealing it
that
badly?
"Oh, I'm just worried about my wife in Britain, Augustus. After all, not knowing what's going on there . . ." He
couldn't
know it, not officially, in this world whose messages moved at the speed of a horseman rather than that of light.

"Yes, you told me about your wife. Attached to Gwenhwyvaer's court, isn't she? I know you must be worried. Thank God Faustina's in Rome." Ecdicius's face clouded. "Not that Rome's safety is certain. The latest word is that the Balkan armies have finally gotten moving and are advancing on Aquileia."

And have taken it,
Sarnac didn't say, for it was something else he had no business knowing. He'd learned only last night that the important city at the head of the Adriatic, only just recovering from its sack by Attila forty years earlier, had fallen. Now an invasion of Italy was immanent, and Tylar and Artorius were preparing to head north from Rome to do what they could.

"Yes, I almost wish Faustina were here," Ecdicius continued. "Nowhere is safe, and I'd have her with me. But of course the children need her in Rome."

"At least, Augustus, you have Julia here where you can keep an eye on her." Sarnac couldn't resist remarking.

"Yes, I certainly do! The young vixen!" Ecdicius' daughter had managed to find some logically irrefutable objection to every villa and town they'd passed through, and was still travelling with them. Now, with Kai's light horsemen roving far and wide, there was no alternative but to keep her with the army, which had adopted her as a mascot anyway. But Ecdicius' scowl was still comical.

"I'm sure she'll be safe, Augustus," Sarnac assured him. "Andronicus will guard her well." Which, he reflected, was an understatement.

"Yes . . . Andronicus." Ecdicius's expression softened. "A fine young man. Although there's something about him—something that makes him hard to place as to his origins. Like you, Bedwyr." The last was spoken casually, but the dark eyes grew disconcertingly shrewd.

Alarm bells went off in Sarnac. Ecdicius had been content to accept the mysterious origins of Tylar and Artorius. But in keeping with Tylar's rule of keeping mystery to a minimum, Sarnac and Andreas had stuck to their original cover stories, and Ecdicius had seemed to accept those too. "Why, he's from Bithynia, Augustus. . . ."

". . . and you're from Armorica. Yes, I know. But there's something I can't quite put my finger on. . . . Still, far be it from me to pry, Bedwyr!" He clapped Sarnac on the shoulder and dazzled him with a grin. "If, for your own reasons or Tertullian's, you need to pose as a simple mercenary, then so be it. And now, I've got to go iron out some dispute between the Frankish and Burgundian troops." And he was off, leaving Sarnac thinking:
That's two.

A stiff west wind, chilly with advancing autumn, was blowing in off the Bristol Channel, and the torch-flames whipped and spat showers of sparks as Gwenhwyvaer looked out over the massed troops. The torchlight melted away the ravages of fifty-six winters and ignited the last remaining embers of flame in her hair; it was Boadicea who stood before them, it was Bellona the goddess of horses and war.

The priests had blessed them earlier for the morrow's battle, but there was nothing Christian about this night's scene. No cross loomed behind Gwenhwyvaer and her captains; the blood-red dragon standard of Artorius streamed in the wind beneath the stars, and his widow spoke words fit to summon up the elemental spirits of the land.

Tiraena, standing inconspicuously off to one side, knew where some of those words had come from.

". . . I do not desire to live to distrust my faithful and loving people. Let tyrants fear! . . . I am come amongst you . . . being resolved, in the midst and heat of battle, to live or die amongst you all, and to lay down for my God and for my people, my honor and my blood, even in the dust. I know I have the body of a weak and feeble woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a king of Britain too, and think foul scorn that Wilhelmus or Balor or any emperor or monster should dare to invade the borders of my realm. . . ."

Tiraena grinned inside the hood of her cloak.
Now where have I heard
that
before? Eat your heart out, Queen Bess!

Good selection on Tylar's part. This country's always seemed to do best under female rulers: Elizabeth I, Victoria, Margaret Thatcher . . .
She became aware that Gwenhwyvaer was telling them of . . .

". . . this happy breed of men, this little world, this precious stone set in the silver sea. . . . This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this Britain. . . ."

Shakespeare, of course. No surprise, knowing Tylar.
What next?
Tiraena wondered.
"We will fight them on the beaches" isn't exactly appropriate; it's a little late for that.

But Gwenhwyvaer managed to speak of their finest hour before the cheering of the troops grew too thunderous for her to be heard.

* * *

The wind was unabated at midmorning, and had begun to bring clouds scudding in off the Atlantic, sending waves of shadow sweeping across the hillsides of this rolling country near the source of the Thames.

Standing atop the highest hill in the neighborhood and facing eastward toward the dark, distant masses of the imperial army, Tiraena gazed down to her right into the gap where the Saxons waited, their flanks secured by hills where light-armed archers and slingers waited among the trees. The valley to the east was like a funnel down which the invaders would pour, to meet the shield-wall. It must hold until the time was right to commit the cavalry that waited in the shelter of the hill, to Tiraena's left.

And there, thought Tiraena with her newly stimulated recollections of Shakespeare, was the rub. Cerdic, who led the shield-wall, and Constantine, who would command the cavalry, were no more able to agree on when the time would be right than they were on anything else.

"Will you wait, then, until all my carles are dead before beginning your charge?" Cerdic demanded.

"The entire main body of the enemy must be locked in battle with you before the cavalry circles the hill and takes them in the rear. Otherwise, our plan's for nought. Are you Saxons too cowardly to uphold your part of it?"
The hell of it is,
Tiraena reflected,
is that Constantine is right. Too bad he has to be such a gigantic prick about it.

Cerdic's glare smoothed itself out into a mocking grin. "Who was given the pass to hold while your infantry take their ease behind?" He swept an arm out toward their rear, where beyond a defile at the base of this hill a ridge line curved away to the southwest. The Briton foot lined that ridge facing north, against the possible appearance of the Fomorians from that direction. Outriders had brought word of their advance, and the terror that spread before it.

Constantine flushed. "It's important that our rear be secured, lest we be caught between two foes."

"Aye, your footmen should be able to deal with naked Irish savages well enough," Cerdic taunted. Tension didn't bring out the best in him. "But have a care who you call cowards, Welshman!"

Constantine's flush grew scarlet and his hand dropped to the hilt of his
spatha
. The Britons didn't like that word, and Tiraena could see their point. It was pretty raw, being called by the Saxon word for "foreigner" in your own country.

"For that, Saxon half-breed, I'll see the color of your guts . . ."

"Have done!" Gwenhwyvaer stepped between them. "Will you madmen fall to fighting among yourselves within sight of the enemy? I forbid all personal quarrels until the battle is over. And
I
will give the signal for the cavalry to charge."

"Very well, Lady." Constantine mounted his horse. "But we'll take this up later, Saxon!" He descended the hill to put himself at the head of the cavalry that waited in its shadow to the north.

"That we will," Cerdic called after him. He looked at Cynric, where the latter stood guard with Peredur behind Tiraena, and gave a quick wink. Then he trotted off down the southern slope to join his men, who cheered him—he'd given them their own dose of edited Shakespeare last night.

"Sweet Jesu!" Gwenhwyvaer fumed to Tiraena. "Why do the imperials even bother invading this island? Why don't they just sit back and watch us kill each other off?"

They grew silent as the enemy advanced in an ominous silence. That army included few heavy cavalry; they'd been deemed unnecessary, for Britain held only a small detachment of the Artoriani, whose main body was stationed in Germania whence Kai had now led them into Gaul. (
Where Bob will be facing them,
Tiraena ordered herself not to remember.) But this was a formidable force, the center composed of heavy infantry—Isaurians from Asia Minor for the most part, but also including many of the Franks that Kai didn't want in Gaul for the same reason he hadn't sent Britons here to face their own countrymen. On the flanks, light cavalry backed up the light-armed infantry. Behind the center were those
cataphractarii
Marcellus had.

They came on with contemptuous directness—Marcellus had encountered little resistance so far except harrying by militia, and he might well be suffering from overconfidence by now. But this was no blundering onrush. As they reached the "neck" of the "funnel" the flanking elements began to advance up the hill slopes, skirmishing with the Britons whose arrows had begun to sprinkle the imperial formations. The center continued to advance and with a blare of trumpets, hurled itself forward.

Tirana imagined she could feel an earth-tremor as the first enemy wave crashed into the shield-wall. A hellish din, compounded of shouts, screams, weapon-impacts and shield-bosses grinding together, assaulted her. After an eternal interval, the enemy drew back, a retreating tide that left a wrack of corpses. The Saxons adjusted their line to fill the gaps left by their own dead. They hadn't given an inch.

The imperials regrouped, and Tiraena could see a coming and going of couriers. A new attack wave, more massive than the first, formed itself and advanced with seemingly unstoppable momentum. Again, the contact of the fighting-fronts was like a palpable blow even where Tiraena stood, looking down from above the pain and blood. Surely, it seemed, the narrow steel band of the shield-wall must snap under the sheer weight of men bearing down on it and the impact of swords and axes that beat on it like blacksmith's hammers. She could sense Cynric fidgeting behind her—his father was fighting in the front line as tradition demanded—but he made no sound.