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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 have 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.

“These boxes—” the tribune continued.

“We would call them ‘containers,’” Rick said. He used the English word for lack of anything better.

“Containers.” The tribune repeated the word and nodded. “These containers were taken into the port city of Pavino, and from there each was carried, separately, across the straits to Nikeis, each time by the same ship, which is one of their navibus onerārius, with decks strengthened and altered to hold the weight of the—container. The first voyage was accompanied by the black man and the star woman. When the black man returned to join his companion, who appears to be the leader of the group, the woman did not accompany him. The black man accompanied the second container to the islands and again returned. Four days ago the last container departed from Pavino accompanied by the two star men and all their gear. They have left nothing on the mainland. We are certain that the destination in each case was Nikeis.”

“So Pavino is four days to the north.”

“One day at the gallop plus two days by messenger galley,” the tribune said. “Our maps show the total distance to be one hundred and seventy Roman miles. Heir of Caesar, our galley was followed by a ship we presume to be of Nikeis, but there was no confrontation. There was an attempt by pirates from the marshes to our north. Four of their vessels attempted to close with us, but we were faster than they.”

Publius nodded.

“Recommend a suitable reward for the captain and crew,” he said. “So. In summary there are three large containers and three new star lords, all lodged in the island city of Nikeis.”

“We presume so, Heir of Caesar.”

“But you know nothing of the content of those containers.”

“Heir of Caesar, we do not.”

“You were pursued by a Nikeisian ship?” Rick asked.

“Perhaps escorted would be a better word than pursued. By a galley that had all the appearance of a Nikeisian patrol warship,” the tribune said. “I saw no flag and we did not investigate. We presumed the information we had was of more importance.”

Much more importance, Tribune Caius Julius,” Rick agreed with a laugh.

“What did the Nikeisian ship do when the pirates attempted to intercept you?” Publius asked.

“It stood off at a distance and observed. When we pulled away from the pirates the Nikeisian ship followed until dark. We saw nothing of it or the pirates the next morning.”

“Might they have rendered aid?” Publius asked. “We are nominally allies of Nikeis.”

“I do not know, Heir of Caesar,” the tribune said. “They did not run away.”

“Who would have won?” Rick asked.

“With the aid of the Nikeisian ship we should have won, but battles are never certain.”

Rick nodded.

“Sounds like the Nikeisian captain made a wise decision. Now, what have the Nikeisian representatives told us?”

“Nothing. Neither the local factor nor any of their officials admit any knowledge of these events. I suspect they have not been told. The Serene Republic is often secretive, even to its own officers.”

“And there are no messages from my men in Nikeis?”

“None. I have asked,” Publius said.

“I’ll need to see the local Nikeisian factors,” Rick said.

“Certainly, but nothing will come of it,” Publius said. “We have watched them closely, and they have received no messages of any kind for weeks.”

“No ship has come here from Nikeis?”

Publius looked to the tribune.

“Fishing vessels, Heir of Caesar. Merchantmen. But we saw no written messages, and none of the fisherfolk spoke at any length with the local Nikeisian factor. Truly, all act as if nothing whatever has happened.”

“Then I suppose we have to get their attention,” Rick said. “Nikeis has much to explain to her allies.”

“I think as you do,” Publius agreed with a thin smile. “Unfortunately, there is more.”

Rick frowned.

“Continue, Tribune, if you please.”

“All I have told you is known to the Ganvin pirate nation,” the tribune said. He shrugged. “That is what they call themselves now. A nation they are not, but there are many pirates in that alliance. The Ganvin band is the largest, and the others have joined with them in hopes of great gain. They have also joined with the Five Kingdoms, no great naval power, but they do have ships, and trained soldiers. Then there is the matter of the so-called Grand Duchy of Riccigiona.”

“I’ve heard that name, but I know little of it,” Rick said.

“Until recently there was little worth knowing,” Caius Julius replied. “They are a city-state of traders, tributary to the Five Kingdoms. They have long been trade rivals of Nikeis, but mostly they have been neutrals, keeping peace in the northern reaches of the Inner Sea.”

“Keeping peace,” Rick said. “Tribune, do you mean literally?”

Caius Julius nodded.

“Their forces are never large, perhaps two score of galleys at most and never more than fifteen hundred soldiers, mostly naval warriors. But they have a good reputation in battle. Pirates prefer to attack Nikeisian or even Roman ships before trying to take a ship with a Riccigionan escort. And now they have joined in alliance with the pirates and the Five Kingdoms.

“The Ganvin band is even now assembling a fleet of more than a hundred galleys, and they have raided towns in the north for slaves, doubtless to be rowers on their ships. This alliance sprang to existence not long after the containers appeared in Pavino. It is not difficult to deduce the goals and destination.”

I don’t like the timing, Rick thought to himself. This alliance of rivals came together pretty quickly with no warning.

“You believe they intend to attack Nikeis?” he asked.

“It seems likely.” The intelligence officer shrugged. “They know of the containers. That knowledge spread like wildfire among the pirates. No one knows what is in them, however. There are rumors of star weapons, but no one actually knows. Yet it is obvious that the containers have great value, and the pirates have cleverly tempted Nikeis in the hopes of provoking them to use those weapons. So far they have not done so. There has been no Skyfire and no Great Guns, no firearms of any kind, have been fired. This has emboldened the pirates and their allies.

“Nikeis has few defenders at this time. We have concluded that the pirates intend to attack Nikeis and take what they can before Nikeis can recall their fleets and hire soldiers.”

“The pirates aren’t afraid of star weapons?”

“Evidently not,” the tribune said. “They know that the containers are defended by only three star lords, one a lady—an armed lady, but a woman none the less.” Tribune Caius Julius shrugged. “Three with star weapons are still only three, and can be overwhelmed by numbers. We cannot know the pirates’ thoughts, but that is my deduction. They seek to strike quickly and take what they can.”

“Clavell and Harrison have battle rifles. The pirates don’t know about them?” Rick asked.

“If so I have not learned of it,” the tribune said. “Understand, Friend of Caesar, we only know that your agents were alive and well when Nikeis closed the city and expelled the Roman officials under the pretext of a disease outbreak. We do not know if the star lords Clavell and Harrison are free or if they have control of their star weapons. If they do, perhaps the pirates face five star weapons, not three. That is still a very small force with which to face a hundred galleys. Even pirate galleys, and with the addition of the Five Kingdoms and Riccigiona the pirate alliance gains both many more ships and skilled captains.”

“How much time do we have?” Rick asked.

The tribune spread his hands. “I would say not long at all.”

“So.” Publius stood. “I have sent word to Rome, and sent messengers to all Roman ship commanders, summoning them to the defense of Nikeis, but I do not think any will arrive in time to be of use. We cannot fight a hundred galleys with the forces in this city. Can you?”

“A hundred galleys? Possibly. Warner?”

“It could be close, but we’ve got the Gurkhas.”

“Precisely,” Rick said. “What will Nikeis do?”

Publius shrugged.

“We only recently learned of the Ganvin coalition,” he said. “I doubt the Signory learned much earlier than my frumentarii. Nikeis has never maintained large fleets and armies in home waters, and the major part of their fleet is in the far south or on the eastern coast of Rome. They have always depended on divisions among their enemies, and on hiring mercenaries to defend them at need, and that has served them well enough. Until recently the pirates were divided into bands with nothing in common save greed and enmity against the Five Kingdoms. Now that the Five Kingdoms have joined with the pirates and the Grand Duchy the situation is very different. Given time Nikeis could assemble enough force to withstand a hundred warships and more, but if the pirate bands bring a full hundred galleys quickly I would not think Nikeis able to resist.” He shrugged again. “Such a force could not hold Nikeis indefinitely, but I think the city might well be sacked. Of course, I am no expert in war at sea.”

Neither am I, Rick thought. He started to say that, and thought better of it.

“How did this team of rivals become an alliance so quickly?”

“Wild stories about what is in those iron boxes abound. It would appear greed has provided a sufficient common interest.”

The timing still seems wrong, Rick thought to himself. This seems to have come together too quickly.

“Do we know how large a fleet Nikeis can assemble?” Rick asked.

“No more than a score of warships of any size whatever,” Tribune Caius Julius said. “They boast the ability to build ships in a day. Whether that is true or not I do not know, but I have never seen it done, and I doubt the ability of new crew aboard a new ship.” The tribune shrugged. “I have no new information, but my conclusion is that we have more ships than Nikeis at this moment.”

* * *

The dining room table in Rick’s villa was too low, and despite two woolen cushions the chair was too hard, but it was more comfortable than the benches his officers had to make do with.

Rick explained the situation to those officers after dinner.

“The upshot is that we have to get their attention in Nikeis, but the main priority is to keep these damned pirates from sacking the place. Please, somebody tell me he knows about galley warfare!”

No one spoke.

“I was afraid of that. Well, I don’t either. And we have to learn fast.”

“The Romans will know something,” Warner said. “They’ve got warships down there in the harbor. Ask them.”

“And let them know how little we know,” Major Baker said. “Perhaps not our best plan.”

“They’ll know we’re lubbers anyway, Sir,” Lieutenant Martins said. “Sailors always do.”

“Leftenant Martins has some yachting experience,” Major Baker said. “He’s the closest thing to a sailor we have, I’m afraid.”

“They’ll find out soon enough,” Rick agreed. “But let’s start with what we do know before we let on to our Roman friends just what lubbers we are. How are we going to defeat a hundred galleys?”

“Logistics,” Warner said. “The trick to galley warfare is feeding the rowers. They eat a lot, and you have to carry it with you. Water, too, you can’t carry more than a few days’ water. A hundred men, maybe a hundred fifty with marines, a gallon a day bare minimum, leave out the weight of the jars and it’s still a lot of water to carry. They can’t keep that fleet together very long.”

“A hundred men at a gallon a day. Eight hundred pounds a day,” Major Baker said. “Do we know the cargo capacity of a galley? I wouldn’t suppose eight hundred pounds is all that much.”

Warner looked at him with an irritated frown.

“But Mr. Warner isn’t that far off,” Lieutenant Martins said. “I don’t claim to be an expert on galley warfare, but I know galleys have a shallow draft with a low freeboard. They’re essentially oversized rowboats which—”

“Excuse me, Lieutenant,” Art Mason said, “but that doesn’t sound like the galleys down there in the harbor. That quinquireme of the Romans, it looks a lot bigger than that.”

Martins paused, looking chagrined, and Rick saw Warner smile. The warrant officer started to speak, but Rick intervened quickly.

“The lieutenant was describing classical galleys,” he said. “Like the ones Athens used. But you’re right, Art. Tran galleys are bigger and heavier than that.” He looked at Martins. “I know it was already getting dark by the time you got here, Lieutenant. I recommend that tomorrow morning you take a look at the ships in the harbor. What the Romans call a quinquireme is what Nikeis calls a great galley, I think, and I’m not sure how they classify these things. ‘Quinquireme’ suggests something with five oardecks to me, but far as I could tell through my binoculars, the one in the harbor here only has three. So left to my own devices, I’d call it a trireme . . . which the Romans don’t. So there’s something else going on here, and I don’t have a clue what. I do remember that Polybius and Pliny wrote a lot about different sizes of galley and used numbers to differentiate. There were fives and sixes—all the way up to nines in at least one account I read—but there’s no damned way someone stuck nine banks of oars onto a galley! So I think we’d better figure it out. I’d like to do that a bit discreetly though—as in without admitting to the world that we don’t have a clue about how it works.”

“Of course, Colonel,” Martins said just a little stiffly. “I’m afraid I know very little of the history from that period.”

“Don’t feel too bad, because there hasn’t been a day here on Tran when I didn’t wish I knew more about some period of history! If I recall correctly, the classic Venetian galley was basically the ultimate refinement of what you’re describing, and it eventually evolved into something called a ‘galleas’ that was supposed to be more seaworthy and big enough to carry guns. Tran doesn’t have guns—well, didn’t until we arrived—but I expect some of the same considerations might have played into evolving a heavier design. Not as heavy as the galleases the Venetians took to Lepanto, though. If I remember, they were heavy enough they had to be towed by a couple of regular galleys if the wind dropped, and these don’t.”

“I think you’re probably right about that, Skipper,” Warner said. “On the other hand, I expect a lot of the pirate galleys we’re talking about would be almost exactly like the ones Lieutenant Martins is describing.” He shrugged. “They’re going to be interested in raiding and plundering, not supporting a mercantile empire. For that, you need speed and maneuverability more than you need brute fighting power.”

“Good point, Mr. Warner. A very good point,” Rick agreed with a smile, and nodded to Martins. “Continue, please, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, Sir.” Martins paused a moment longer, as if collecting his thoughts, then resumed. “What the Colonel has just called a classic galley can carry a couple days’ supplies, but that’s about all. They are designed to stay near the coast, they don’t usually go far from land, so they can normally afford to sacrifice carrying capacity in favor of that speed and maneuverability Mr. Warner mentioned. This pirate fleet’s larger ships might carry additional stores, but they’d still have to transfer those stores on shore to feed the rest of their force. So we should have a very good idea where they are coming from.”

“A hundred ships,” Rick said. “With a hundred and fifty men each. Probably more like a hundred and seventy to two hundred on the great galleys, but most of them will be the pirates you and Lieutenant Martins are talking about. So a hundred and fifty’s probably a pretty good average number. Call it fifteen thousand men, between them. That’s a hell of a fighting force.”

“Half that would be a large force,” Lieutenant Cargill said. “If they’ll fight, but perhaps they’ll nae be keen to face our rifles? Still, I’d nae like a standing battle with those odds.”

“Colonel, you said the pirates are raiding for slaves. Slaves aren't going to fight for the people who just enslaved them!” Mason said.

“Or not all of them,” Lieutenant Martins said. “Some might, you know. Vikings sometimes added slaves to their crews.”

“Didn’t know that,” Warner said. “Call it ten thousand fighting men, then. That’s still a lot.”

“Half that is still a lot,” Martins said, and Warner nodded in agreement.

“But no guns,” he said. “Bows, we don’t know how good, but there’ll be some. No guns, but crossbows which are pretty near as good as muskets. I noticed there’s catapults on the forecastles of the Roman ships in the harbor. And weapon racks around the masts. Figure the pirates for the same thing. I’d guess the typical battle is you shoot catapults and arrows, then try to ram so you can get aboard the other guy’s ship.”

“No corvus,” Lieutenant Cargill said. “At least none I’ve seen.”

Several of the others looked at the young Scot in surprise, and he shrugged.

“Saw it once on a BBC historical presentation,” he said, and someone laughed.

“Well, it’s a good point,” Warner said, “but I’m not surprised we haven’t seen any. The Romans used to beat Carthage in naval battles with the corvus—”

“Larry, I didn’t see any BBC specials,” Art Mason said. “I don’t know what the hell a corvus is.”

“Oh. Sorry, Major. The early Roman Republic was a land power, splendid armies but no navy at all. The story is that when the Romans realized they’d have to fight Carthage on the seas, they built dry land mockups of ships and used those to train soldiers to row while they were building a fleet. When they got ships, they didn’t know how to fight at sea—it takes a lot of training to use the kind of ramming tactics the Greeks used, and they didn’t have it—so they put a big gangplank up forward with an enormous spike. Get close to the other guy, drop the corvus. Means ‘crow,’ that spiked gangplank looked like a crow’s beak, maybe. Anyway, drop the corvus. The spike goes in the other guy’s deck. Now your marines swarm across and it’s like a land battle. The Carthaginians might have been better sailors, but the Romans were better soldiers, so they cleaned the Carthaginians’ clocks. Rome won all the big naval battles. Only thing was, the corvus was so heavy and destabilizing that any time there was a storm they’d lose just about all the ships that had one. So they gave it up.”

“Oh. Thanks,” Mason said, and Warner laughed slightly.

“I never quite understood that, but it’s for sure that the Romans gave up the corvus. The point is that it’s a good idea but not one we want until we’re really desperate, and we haven’t got time to rebuild the ships anyway! But look, the way they fight here, it’s got to be ram and board. They don’t have guns.”

“They’ve got bows,” Rick said.

“Damned big arbalests on the Roman ship,” Cargill said.

“I’d think twenty of my lads with their rifles would be more than a match for any kind of galley,” Major Baker said. “Just keep the engagement at range.”

“If we can get them to go aboard a rowboat,” Martins said. “Not sure they’ll like that.”

“Aye, that may be a problem,” Cargill said. “They’re nae keen on boats.”

“So far morale is fair,” Baker said. “They still think this is a mission, and they’re happy enough that they won’t be disbanded and sent home. But they still think they’ll get home eventually, of course.”

“Sergeant Major suspects something is wrong,” Martins said. “He was due for retirement, and now he’s off on a mission in a very strange place. He knows this isn’t Earth.”

“I expect they all know that,” Rick said. “You tell me they aren’t fools. They knew it the first time they saw a centaur, if not earlier.”

“Yes,” Baker said. “They know. So far they haven’t made any great point about it, but they will when we don’t tell them when they get to go home.”

“The word is getting around,” Martins said. “That we don’t expect to go home again, so why should anyone else? That hasn’t entirely sunk in yet, but it will.”

“Will they fight for us?” Rick asked.

“You saw them do it,” Baker said.

“I did indeed, Major Baker. Can you get them on the boats?”

“Sergeant Major can,” Baker said. “And he’ll do it. More out of habit than anything else, I expect, but he’ll do it. So far the Gurkhas are loyal, at least to the Queen, if not to us. No guarantees on what happens when they find we’re not the Queen’s men anymore.”

“We’ll have to get them aboard,” Rick said. “It’s our only way of defeating superior numbers. On water anyway.”

“What we need is cannon,” Warner said. “Get me a good bronze foundry and some time and I can make naval cannon.”

They all looked at him.

“Well it may take some experimentation, but yes, I can do it,” Warner said. “So could you, if you’d try. There are foundries in Chelm, and some good ones around Edron, too, but the Romans have the best foundries from what I can tell. Wouldn’t surprise me if we find out the Romans have built a couple of cannon. They’ll sure be experimenting with them.”

“Edron’s going to be an island,” Rick mused. “Possibly within a year, certainly within ten. For a short while it will mean forests near the sea. Foundries already there. Not hard to build shipyards.”

“Your pardon, Sir, but that’s all wishes for the future,” Major Baker said. “Steam engines wouldn’t hurt as long as we’re wishing.”

Rick nodded.

“Yes, sorry, I got ahead of myself. We’ll have to develop both, I think. Naval cannon and steam engines. Wood at first, but it won’t be long until we’re making ironclads.”

“Your best powder mills are near Armagh,” Mason said. “Maybe we should think about putting a garrison there while we still can.” He shook his head sadly. “We just about abandoned the place, now we have to get back there. Maybe things are better with Ganton now.”

“They are,” Rick said. “Thanks particularly to Major Baker and his merry men. Who should I put in charge there?”

“Left to me, I’d put Elliot there,” Art Mason said. “He can’t be happy being under Lady Tylara’s eye. Hell, let him choose a bodyguard and go back, they’re used to him being in charge.”

More goddam decisions.

“Make it happen, Art. Use the semaphore.”

“Yessir.”

Abandon Armagh. Get to Chelm, then go right back to Armagh. Monkey motion. That’s how Elliot will see it, Rick thought. Maybe he’ll be used to it. Anyway, it’ll have to do.

“We’ll need Armagh if we’re going to build industries,” he said. “And shipyards. Time to start looking for another base, just in case.”

“Cannon, steam engines, powder mills,” Warner mused. “Paddle-wheelers first, I think. Then side-wheelers. Propellers are better, but I don’t know much about designing them. Except that it’s a hell of a lot harder to get it right than most people think.”

“Warner, maybe we need to secure Armagh, but we’re not going to develop cannon and oceangoing sidewheelers in the next couple of weeks!” Art Mason said. “And from what I’m getting, that’s about how long we’ve got.”

“Yes, Sir,” Warner said. “Sorry. We won’t have them in weeks, but I’ll bet you anything you like that in well under five years naval battles will be fought with cannon and steam. And ironclads in under ten years. Probably a lot less. But given the present situation, Major Baker’s right, isn’t he? All we have to do is get twenty riflemen a hundred yards from an enemy galley and they can put it out of action pretty fast.”

“Assuming there’s no storm, our men aren’t seasick, and for that matter, that we can find the bloody enemy,” Baker said.

“We don’t have to find them,” Rick said. “We just have to keep them from sacking Nikeis.”

“Which may solve the problem of how we get the Serene Republic’s attention,” Warner said. “They’ve got to have heard about this upcoming pirate raid.”

“And if they haven’t, we can certainly tell them,” Major Baker said.

“A hundred yards may not be enough,” Mason said. “I’ve seen them arbalests at work.”

“I share your concern and Major Baker’s,” Martins said. “As much as I respect our troops, they are not Marine Commandos. Our strategies should not be overly reliant upon rifle fire, particularly on the water. Fortunately, we have other capabilities at hand which can enhance the Roman fleet.”

He paused, and Rick looked at him speculatively.

“And those capabilities would be—?” he invited after a moment.

“Galleys are designed to fight primarily to the front,” Martins said. “They usually have a ram on the front, often the arbalests we’ve seen, a place for the marines, grapnels, a boarding ramp, on Earth maybe a corvus. All of their combat power is forward. The sides are for the oars, the stern for command and steering. The sides or the stern of a galley are very vulnerable. If you can flank them, their numbers become irrelevant, in fact a liability. Within reason, at least.”

Rick leaned back, gazing at him with pursed lips.

“And how do we gain that flank? I tend to suspect they’d be at least as aware as we are of what a bad idea it would be for them to let us do that.”

“If what we’ve seen on land holds at sea, we have significant advantages they can’t match, Sir. We have radios, backed up by your semaphore, and signaling rockets. We have binoculars and we have compasses. Those should give us significant advantages in maneuvering for position.”

“We’re talking considerable odds. You’ll have to be decisive at the point of contact, even if you catch them on the flank.”

“Yes, Sir. That’s where our firepower can come in handy.”

* * *

When the conference ended, Major Baker waited until the others were gone.

“A word with you, Sir.”

“Yes?”

“Risky business, putting my lads onto boats. None of us know a thing about sailing. Martins has a little yachting experience, but not much. We’ll have to trust the boat crews to know what they’re doing. Sure you want to do that?”

“No, I’m not sure at all,” Rick said. And I’m not sure how much to trust Martins, either, but he’s onto something. “But we can’t let these newcomers and their containers fall into the hands of pirates! Particularly if they’re the instructors you said Agzaral was sending.”

“I’d think that less dangerous than letting any knowledge from Earth loose unsupervised in Nikeis. Or anywhere else for that matter.”

“Now there’s an interesting thought,” Rick said. “Actually, that’s likely to happen no matter what we do. Once they know it can be done, the Nikeisians will probably develop technology nearly as fast as we can. They can sure do more with the technology than Drantos. Closest thing to a free society on the planet.”

“You know this?”

“No, of course I don’t know this,” Rick said. “Guessing from the reports I had from Clavell.” And what I remember of the Venetian Republic, and how it fascinated the Framers, but this isn’t the time to talk about constitutions. Not now, but someday . . .

“Your free society may just have your men in a dungeon, you know,” Baker said. “Are you certain you aren’t romanticizing? Freedom, liberty, Yankee Doodle—Beg your pardon, Colonel, but I’ve seen Yanks do that before.”

Rick frowned, then grinned.

“You may be right. And my first concern is my troops.”

“As is mine,” Clyde Baker said. No smile. He seemed very serious, and Rick nodded slowly.

“We both have the same problem. Tell me, Major, do you enjoy power?”

“I enjoy order,” Baker said. “It’s why I chose to be a professional soldier. Can’t say I never thought of having a run for Parliament after retirement.” He smiled thinly. “Not such a good idea now. No Parliament, and not much prospect of retirement.”

“Mamelukes,” Rick said, and Baker frowned.

“I’ve heard the word,” he said. “Egyptian soldiers, weren’t they? Napoleon defeated them. Can’t say I know anything else about them.”

“They were slave soldiers,” Rick said. “In Egypt, yes, but all over the Middle East.”

“Like the Janissaries?”

“Yes. Only in Egypt the Mamelukes took over. Threw out the local government, set up their own—and decided to stay slave soldiers. They were mostly from the Caucuses, Circassia, and they bought more Circassian slaves. Trained them well. Mastered their military skills. Napoleon said one Mameluke could defeat a half dozen Frenchmen, possibly more. Professional soldiers. Elected their own officers. Promoted on merit—they were all slaves, you see.”

“And they ruled the whole country?” Baker looked thoughtful.

“They sort of supervised it. Appointed civil governments and left them alone unless they got too far out of line, in which case they threw them out and put in new ones. Worked for a couple of centuries, and they pretty well avoided a lot of the civil wars the rest of the world was going through. Lasted until Napoleon brought in the French army.”

“And that’s us?” Baker said.

“One model, I suppose.”

Baker looked thoughtful.

“Indeed. Is this what you contemplate? Someone has to be in charge. Have you ambitions to be Caesar?”

“No. Not sure what I want, but my ambition is to retire to Chelm and raise my children. That takes peace and we’re not going to have any of that. Not right now, anyway.”

“That won’t ever work,” Baker said.

Rick frowned.

“Pardon my bluntness, Colonel, but this is important. Whoever controls that knowledge will pretty well direct this planet’s progress.”

“Possibly. Knowledge spreads fast, you know. It’s very hard to keep secrets. A few years, perhaps, but once something is known to be possible, it gets out fast. I’m sure the Romans are hard at work on gunpowder, for example. They know the formula by now, and they have foundries. I’d bet they’re forging cannon, and I wouldn’t be astonished if they have experimental harquebus formations already! Knowledge can outrun conquest.”

“Renaissance,” Baker said. “Yes, Sir, I understand that. But doesn’t that give us a certain responsibility? At least to try to ensure some sort of order?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Rick said. I hate it, but he’s right. Damn all.

“Which brings us to the key question,” Baker said. His voice lost all the bantering tone and became very serious. “I pledged loyalty to you, and I meant it. Still do. I didn’t commit to any council of officers.”

“Even if you’re on it? You certainly would be.”

“I’d expect to be. At the moment my status is simple. I’m a mercenary hired out to you. You play the political games, and it’s complicated by your status in this Chelm place wherever that is, but in effect you’re a mercenary who’s hired out to Drantos. All of which is very well, but where do we stand with the Galactics who brought us here?”

“For the moment I’m growing their damned crops and selling to them,” Rick said.

“Colonel, you’re making things pretty damned complicated if that’s your simple goal!”

Rick went over to the side table and poured two glasses of the local port wine. Port. It couldn’t be Port, there wasn’t any Portugal here, but this was a lot like what he used to call Port . . .

Rick shook his head and handed the handblown glass of wine to Baker.

“Cheers. You’re right, of course. I assume that in twenty years or so the Shalnuksi traders will lose interest in Tran. They always have. About twenty years and they’re gone, sometimes bombing the hell out of the place on the way out, sometimes not. I don’t have any control over that. Agzaral may have plans, in fact I’m sure of it, and last I heard he wasn’t for bombing this place, but he’s made me no promises. His plans change, too. He let you come here, and that sure didn’t fit the situation he described to me.”

“Of course, he has plans,” Clyde Baker said. “He was quite explicit about my best choice being to work with you.”

“Or he could simply be working to concentrate his targets,” Rick said and Baker frowned.

“Do you believe that?”

“No. Thinking back to my interviews with Agzaral, he was always acting as if we were being recorded and he couldn’t be straight, but he’d like to be.” Rick shrugged. “Of course, he’d act that way if he were a villain, too. Gwen—that’s Gwen Tremaine—got to know one of the human Galactics pretty well—”

“Had a child by one of them, I believe you said.”

“Yes. She doesn’t talk about it a lot, but she’s clearly fond of Les. The pilot who seduced her and abandoned her on this dump. And from everything I can infer, the human Galactics don’t have any ill will towards anyone on Tran, star men or natives.” Rick shrugged. “Major, it’s beyond me. Gwen wanted to go native and hide, but she seems to have changed her mind about that. Whether that’s because of something she learned from Les or just a change of mind I don’t know, but she’s got three kids to look out for, and she’s not trying to hide any longer.”

“Will he warn her if they’re coming with bombs?” Baker asked.

“I’m quite sure he will if he can.”

“How long will we have?”

Rich shook his head slowly.

“Major, I don’t know. From what I can get out of Tran history, we have a good ten years and probably more. I’ve been working on that assumption. I’ve also assumed that it’s contingent on our being worth our keep, so I’ve worked pretty hard to gather a good harvest of madweed. We’ve got quite a lot for the next trade, which ought to happen in the next few months, possibly sooner. Another reason to get things settled here!”

“And then?” Baker prompted.

“My goal’s clear enough. I’m hoping to have some control left after the Galactics leave and we’re on our own. Since I’m not immortal and I have no way of knowing if my kids will be any use, what’s left? I’m responsible to my men, Major Baker. You don’t like a council of officers much, and neither do I, but what are our alternatives?”

Baker nodded.

“Timocracy, I think Plato called it. I don’t see anything better coming, and there’s no urgency in decision. Unless you get yourself killed,” Baker said carefully. “That would produce a messy situation.”

“I’ll try not to.”

“Good. So what’s our plan, Colonel?”

Rick shook his head, trying not to show his dismay.

“No immediate details. Keep pissing on fires until we have some time for real plans. Some things are damned obvious. We have to secure those containers. Time enough to dispose of them when we know what’s in them! I doubt they’re empty, but all I can do is guess what they’ve brought. Or why the Galactics let any technology get through at all. Maybe the Earth guys who brought them will know. But first we have to get possession! When we’ve done that it will be time to sell more dope to the Shalnuksis. I’ve got plenty enough to keep them happy. So we meet the Shalnuksi traders, and with luck we’ll learn something from that. Then there’s a Five Kingdoms army sitting on my land that’s got to be chased out of there—”

“Assuming it doesn’t just melt away now,” Baker said. “Your friend Ganton had the Five Kingdoms people scared enough there was talk of recalling that army. That was before my lads put Ganton on the run, but I rather doubt they feel very secure now that we’ve changed sides. And your musketeers and pikemen may not be much of a threat to my lads, but they’re sure a match for the locals. And then some. I wouldn’t be much concerned about chasing that army out of your backyard. I expect your wife is well on the way to doing it now.”

Interesting, Rich thought. I suppose he’s been talking with Mason about Chelm and Tylara. He poured each of them another glass of port.

“Not unlikely, actually,” he said. “Which makes one less problem to worry about. But we still have to deal with the Five Kingdoms. Southern refugees will be coming in floods, and we’ll have to settle some of them on the Fivers. Then we’ll still have problems with Westmen, more could start coming down the passes.” He drank a big swallow.

“Since you seem to be playing matchmaker, perhaps I should learn more about these Westmen.”

“As you’ve seen, Westmen are Oriental in appearance,” Rick said. “I don’t know the culture they came from, or when, but ethnically they look to me to be the nearest thing to Gurkhas I’ve seen. Primitive culture, polytheists.”

“That could be interesting.”

“The tribes I’m allied with have a settlement west of Chelm,” Rick said. “You’ll meet more of them, if we get past this crisis.”

“No lack of work,” Baker said, raising his glass in salute. “That can’t be all bad news! Cheer up, Colonel. If I come up with a better plan I’ll tell you, but I’m not unhappy with my decision.”


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