Debt of Ages (31 page)

"Spilled Saxon blood should be no novelty to you," Cerdic said, unmoved. "You Britons have spilled it in plenty."

"Aye, when you came as ravagers of these shores. But this day's Saxon blood was shed in defense of this land, and your dead will be buried in the soil they died guarding. So whatever has gone before, for good or ill, your people are part of Britain and it's part of you, from now until the ending of the world." And he extended his hand.

He still wouldn't want his sister to marry one,
Tiraena knew.
But it's a start—a start!

Cerdic met Constantine's eyes, and looked at the extended hand. Then he took it, in the Roman fashion. Gwenhwyvaer smiled, and laid a hand atop the clasped forearms.

The two men departed to see to their respective followers. But Gwenhwyvaer remained, and turned to Tiraena with a smile. "Well, Lucasta, what are the bards going to do with you? How are they going to deal with the fact, witnessed by so many, that it was a woman—and a foreign woman at that—who slew the monster?"

I imagine,
Tiraena thought,
that hero-tales are going to have to accommodate a little more variety in this timeline. Good.
She started to say something about it, but Gwenhwyvaer was gazing down at Cynric, now mercifully unconscious, with an expression that would have puzzled Tiraena once. Then she looked up with a bitter little smile. "Ah, Cerdic," she whispered. "I think I can understand how it is—how it must be for those who can have children!"

So that still rankles.
Aloud, Tiraena addressed the queen in British rather than their customary Latin. "Leave all thoughts of barrenness, Lady. For it's in my heart that you've given birth to a nation!"

Gwehwyvaer gazed at her for a time before replying in the same tongue. "Oh, a nation's been born, right enough. God knows there's been sufficient pain and blood this day for the birth of a giant! But . . ." Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. "But it wasn't I who gave it life. It created itself. At most, I'm the foster-mother."

She seemed about to say more, but men started arriving, asking questions and needing decisions made. A final quick smile for Tiraena, and Gwenhwyvaer was off to tend her infant titan.

Alone for the moment, Tiraena slipped one of the little pills out of her pouch and swallowed. She'd just washed it down with wine from the jug that had been left beside her when Flavian, the only surgeon for this army of thousands, arrived from his rounds. He gave Tiraena a smile which vanished when he looked at Cynric.

"There's no hope, is there?" she asked, unnecessarily.

"No." The fine-boned face, clearly more Roman than Celtic, wore an expression compounded of exhaustion and despair. "The liver is pierced. He'll die before morning. I can do nothing for him." His features stiffened with bitterness, and he swept his arm out over the whole camp with its moaning rows of the wounded. "I can do nothing for any of them except try to ease their pain. I can't stop them from dying, because while we know well enough what death and sickness look like we don't really know
why
a man is alive one moment and dead the next. We know nothing. Nothing!" He clenched his fists in helpless fury, for he took all the suffering and death in the world as a personal affront.

Why aren't all doctors like this one?
Tiraena asked the God in whom she did not believe.
And why doesn't this one have the tools and knowledge he needs?
The universe gave no answer, but she hadn't really expected one.

Flavian departed to fight and lose yet another battle in his hopeless personal war, and Tiraena looked at Cynric where he lay beside her. He was awake again, and moaning softly. As she studied his profile—yes, there was some of his grandfather there if you knew what to look for—Tylar's words played themselves over and over in her head.
"All obvious manifestations of advanced science and technology must be kept hidden from the inhabitants of this milieu, lest the culture's future intellectual development be distorted. It is all for the greater long-range good. . . ."

She became aware that her hand, as though actuated by a will of its own, was fumbling in the pouch, withdrawing one of the recovery-stimulating pills. She turned to Cynric and spoke urgently, for soon sleep would take her.

"Cynric!"

The youth turned his head and recognized her. "Yes, Lady?"

"Cynric, I want you to do something for me." She took the hand of his good arm and pressed the pill into it. "I want you to swallow this."

"Swallow it?" Cynric stared dubiously at the tiny ovoid, so disconcertingly unnatural, made from no substance he'd ever seen. "Why, Lady?"

"Never mind," Tiraena said, fighting off the oncoming waves of sleep. "Just do it."

"Er . . . can't I just
hold
it?"

Tiraena took a deep breath. "Cynric, you must trust me. This is a very sacred object, blessed by a holy man in—" her mind flew back to one of the twentieth-century flat movies for which Bob had a perverse fondness "—Antioch. Its virtue is that it cures seemingly mortal wounds. But you must take it into your body, like . . . like the Holy Communion. Will you do it for me, Cynric?"

The blue eyes took on an expression that sent a realization of her own unworthiness washing over her like a wave. "For you, Lady," he breathed. Then he crossed himself and popped the pill into his mouth.

She poured a swallow of wine into him, and he lay back with a smile. Sleep came almost immediately, and his features relaxed into those of the boy he still was. She made absolutely certain he was unconscious before reaching out and tousling the blond hair.

Flavian returned and saw that Cynric was motionless. "Is he . . . ?"

"No." Though rapidly drifting off, Tiraena managed a head-shake. "He's going to be all right."

"
What?
No, Lady. It's not possible."

"Flavian, believe me. I've had a . . . a vision. Just keep an eye on him. He's gone into a deep, healing sleep that will last a long time. When he awakes, give him all the food he wants, because he'll be . . . very hungry. So will I." She roused herself for a final sentence. "And tell Cerdic . . . I think he'll want to know. . . ." She slid into a semiconscious state where speech was impossible.

The surgeon leaned over and examined Cynric. Yes, the lad was breathing—and breathing deeply and regularly! He was sleeping peacefully, and his color actually seemed to be better.

Flavian stood up and gazed at the woman Lucasta, now sinking rapidly into a deep sleep of her own, and his flesh prickled. She had a Power in her that was beyond his understanding, beyond even his desire to understand. But it could not be a thing of evil. What, he wondered, could be the thoughts behind that serene, almost beatific smile her face wore?

Fuck you, Tylar,
she thought just before letting sleep take her.

"Tylar, what the hell's
happening
? I need to know!"

"Compose yourself." In Sarnac's ghostly holo display screen, the time traveler's visage was as infuriatingly calm as ever. "I also have been unable to make contact with Tiraena. This may mean simply that she is presently unable to access her long-range communicator, which, in turn, could have any of a number of relatively benign explanations—"

The tent-flap flew open, revealing Andreas in full battle array save for the helmet he still held in the crook of his left arm. "Come on, Bob! Things are moving!"

"All right, all right! I'll be along!" He instantly regretted snapping at Andreas, but he had to find out whatever Tylar knew. The young transtemporal voyager seemed to understand.

"I'll tell Ecdicius something or other, Bob. But hurry!" And Andreas was gone, plunging back into the turmoil of the camp.

"Look, Tylar, I haven't got much time, so cut the crap! What do you know about Tiraena's status?"

"I was just coming to that, my dear fellow. Finding myself unable to contact her, I investigated the state of affairs in Britain using surveillance satellites."

"Huh? What surveillance satellites?"

"Sentient devices the ship deployed into orbit as we approached, as a matter of routine procedure. Didn't I mention them? At any rate, you can set your mind at rest. The crisis is past in Britain. The invasion has been broken, and the Interrogator is dead."

"Thank God for that," Sarnac breathed.

"Dead by Tiraena's own hand, no less! Of course, she sustained some damage in the process—"

"What?!"

"Calm yourself! She's in no danger. But she's still recovering with the aid of the field pharmacopeia I supplied to you both. So she's been in no position to initiate long-range communications. And now"—he glanced over his shoulder at something unseen—"I must go. Matters are coming to a head here."

Here
, Sarnac knew, meant the marshes shielding Ravenna, and he abruptly felt guilty for keeping Tylar distracted so long from the task of blocking the Eastern armies that sought to penetrate to the city. "Uh, yeah, of course. Good luck to you and Artorius."

"I'll convey your message to him when I see him again, but he's rather heavily engaged just now." Tylar paused before signing off. "Oh, yes, I almost forgot. Be sure to keep your long-range communicator in your possession at all times."

Sarnac looked skeptically at the oblong device that fit into a custom-made pouch of authentic local leather. Carrying it would be a nuisance, but it could be done.

"Well . . ." he began.

"Splendid. Remember, it's very important." And Tylar's image vanished.

Sarnac was already outfitted. He wore a scale-armor hauberk because it was expected; he couldn't get away with going into battle in what appeared to be mere quilted cloth as he had in the good old days. Too bad—the hauberk blocked the impact armor's microscopic sensors, leaving his "cloth"-clad arms and legs considerably better protected than his torso. He attached the communicator's leather carrying case—not unlike a Civil War era cartridge box—to his belt. Then he put on his cavalry helmet and joined the cheek-pieces under his chin, and stepped out into the campground. It was an unseasonably warm day for late autumn, but blustery with the promise of rain-squalls later. He paused to take in the panoramic view of what was to be today's battlefield.

Kai had finally forced a break in the deadlock. He'd struck out boldly, advancing westward from Toul, ignoring the road system and using his superb engineering corps to ford the upper reaches of the Marne and the Aube. He'd never read Sun Tzu, but he understood instinctively the way to force engagement: "When I wish to give battle, my enemy . . . cannot help but engage me, for I attack a position he must succor." Toul had been expendable; the vital road-hub of Troyes was not.

Ecdicius had countermarched at a pace that had almost driven his army beyond endurance. But now they lay interposed between Kai and Troyes. It wasn't a defensive position Ecdicius would have preferred; this low plateau where the fortified camp lay should have anchored their left flank, but thanks to Kai's preliminary maneuvering it must hold their center. In front of Sarnac, a line of spearmen faced the dauntingly massive formation of Kai's infantry center to the northeast, beyond which rose the hill—the highest one hereabouts—where the enemy command center lay. Behind the spearmen, and a little above them on the slope to shoot over their heads, were the crossbowmen on whom so much had been staked.

To the left, where the plateau was lower, was a line of relatively light-armed local cavalry levies led by Basileus. Opposite them was a large enemy cavalry formation, behind which could be seen the array of red cloaks that marked the Artoriani. To the right, below a shoulder of the plateau, Ecdicius led the pick of his cavalry: heavy
cataphractarii
, including most of his old Brotherhood from the Visigothic wars and many of their sons. They confronted a formidable infantry formation in defensive posture.

The dangers in having the commander-in-chief on the lower ground to the right where he couldn't oversee the battle were obvious even in this era, with its rudimentary notions of command-and-control. But Ecdicius could see no alternative; he must lead the heavy cavalry in person, in an effort to break through and create the kind of fluid battle he liked.

Hopefully, the two advisers "Tertullian" had lent him would be able to help in that area. . . .

"Are you receiving?" Sarnac subvocalized.

"Loud and clear," Andreas replied from his position with the right wing. "Ecdicius is still wondering why you requested to be assigned to the left wing rather than with him and the heavy cavalry."

Sarnac mounted up. He readjusted the communicator on his belt so it wouldn't dig into his ribs and cursed Tylar mechanically. "But he bought my explanation that I could do the most good where the Artoriani are going to hit us, didn't he?"

"Oh, yes. He could see the sense in it. And he was obviously impressed by your guts."

"Nice to be appreciated." Sarnac rode toward the left, down to the lower ground. Here, it wasn't really a plateau, just a rise. Still, what little slope there was to the northeast would be in their favor. The bad news was that they couldn't just let momentum carry them downhill, lest a gap open between them and the infantry center on the bluffs to their right.

"Ho, Bedwyr!" Basileus greeted him. "What kept you?"

"I was . . . praying for my wife in Britain."

"Ah, of course. But don't worry—I'm sure she's fine." Suddenly, a noise of trumpets from the imperial formation cut short the veteran's attempts at encouragement.

"They're advancing," Basileus observed. He signalled his own trumpeters, and the lines of mostly leather-armored light cavalry began to move.

Looking beyond the enemy battle-front, Sarnac saw that the Artoriani were advancing more slowly than the lead elements. Glancing to the right, he saw the dense masses of imperial infantry moving forward, juggernaut-like. They included longbowmen, so Ecdicius's center would have to take some nasty missile-fire before being able to respond with crossbows.

Then his attention snapped back to his own part of the battle, as the enemy horse drew closer with hideous speed. Both sides' ranks included some mounted archers. They weren't much compared to what was even now standard on the Eurasian steppe, and Genghis Khan's boys would have reacted with a disdainful "Oh, puh-
leeze!
" or its equivalent. But they could discharge arrows, some of which found their marks in flesh—generally that of horses. So the momentum of charge and countercharge had been blunted by the time the two met head to head.