"Yes, lord," Caradoc said.
And there aren't a hell of a lot of people I can give that order to and be sure it will be carried out.
"Can you come now?" Caradoc asked. "There is a man you must see."
Rick sighed wearily. "It is urgent?"
"Very urgent, lord. It is Tethryn."
"He lives?"
"For the moment. The priests did not think he should be moved, but he was determined to speak to you, and has come." Caradoc paused for a moment. "I think it makes little difference whether we move him or not."
"I'll come," Rick said. "I owe him my life."
Tethryn lay on a horse litter at the edge of the clearing. His brother Dwyfyd bent over him. They look so much alike, Rick thought. Alike, and young and- Dwyfyd's eyes were wet with tears.
"Lord Rick." The dying boy's voice was almost inaudible.
"Hail, my friend and companion-"
"Thank you."
"You must rest."
"There is no time, lord. Vothan One-eye has chosen me to guest in his hail this day. But I hope-you will not believe you see only enemies-in Clan Calder now. Some-some of the lesser chiefs…"
"Some of them would rather I did, so they can continue to plot against me?"
The boy was silent so long that Rick thought he'd fainted or died. Then he nodded. "Aye. Couldn't let you die-to make them happy. Not-when-they lied. My father was wrong. You are-no coward."
Tethryn's eyes closed, and Rick moved away to leave Dwyfyd alone with his brother.
Damn. Hell and damn. The kid wasn't eighteen yet.
"It is done?" Rick asked.
Dwyfyd nodded silently.
"He was a brave companion," Rick said. "He will have no minor place in Vothan's hall."
"Lord-"
"Yes?"
"May-may I ask a boon in Tethryn's name?"
"Yes."
Dwyfyd didn't hesitate. "Corgarff's life, lord."
"Why?"
"He is my clansman. And-there are reasons."
Aha. So you know that your father was involved in the plot against the balloon. Probably ordered Corgarff 's part in it. And you want to make that up.
"You do him no great service," Rick said. "He will be a cripple-"
"None the less, I owe him. And his family."
And you've probably paid off that crofter's family, too. "Clan Calder has a worthy chief," Rick said.
"Caradoc, have messengers ride swiftly. Carry my orders to Lady Gwen that Corgarff is to be pardoned. Tell her that a writ will come soon. She is to stay the headsman's ax."
"Aye," Caradoc said.
And you don't approve. But you'll send the fastest man anyway, won't you? There's real loyalty. If there's time to save Corgarff, you'll save him, though you'd rather watch him die.
Pity we don't have working radios. A couple of sets would make a lot of difference. Semaphore? Heliograph? Telegraph towers? We could put those up. Have to think about it. Certainly we could link key points to share messages within a few hours…
And there were a thousand other details, and meetings to hold tonight, now that he'd located the edges of at least one legion. Battles to plan and kingdoms to govern and he hadn't even planted the first stick of surinomaz and Lord how every joint and muscle ached!
But some problems were solved. They held the bridge. There would be no difficulty in linking up with Marselius-indeed, Flaminius might be caught between them. He'd have to fight.
And there were political victories. Clan Calder an ally. Or at least its chief is. The Romans I killed today haven't died to no purpose. There'll be fewer knives aimed at my back, and the longer I live the more I can do on this world- How many get the chance to change the destiny of a whole world? I've been given that chance. Every man who died today will save hundreds over the next few years.
He told himself this as he swung up into the saddle. He would go on telling himself this, until perhaps someday he would believe it. And through it all, he could still hear the small voice in his mind which said, "Rick Galloway, are you sure you're not a coward?"
15
The monontonous beat of the kettledrums ceased. Second Pike Regiment spread forward to stand guard, while Third Pikes began construction of a temporary camp. Roman engineers supervised as the pikemen, assisted by archers, drove stakes and dug ditches.
"Bloody waste of effort," someone muttered behind Rick. One of the Tamaerthan knights.
"It will not be your effort wasted," said another knight. Dwyfyd, Rick thought. Better, though, to pretend he hadn't heard at all.
At least none of the knights was arguing that they ought to dismount and take their ease while the foot soldiers built their camp.
"Aye. We hae learned from the Romans to sleep well at night, knowing we will no be surprised. And that, my lords, is no small thing."
Drumold, of course, Rick thought. But the voice seemed to come from a very long way away. Suddenly he swayed in the saddle***
"My lord."
Rick didn't want to open his eyes. There was a hot smell. Lamp oil. Why would they be burning lamps in the afternoon? He opened one eye. Yellow light. Brown walls. He tried to sit up.
"Stay easy, my lord."
His eyes focussed at last. A young acolyte of Yatar. And Rick was on a cot, in his own tent. It was late enough that lamps were lit.
"Is he awake?" Drumold's voice came from outside.
"Yes, lord. I will go for the priest."
"Do that." Drumold came in to sit next to Rick. "Are ye well, lad?"
"Certainly." He tried to sit up, but his head felt light. "I don't understand what happened-"
"Hah. You're battered and torn, lost blood from three wounds. Your thumb's the size of a gull's head and your ankle larger than his body. Withall, you sit a horse all day and you wonder you faint? Rest, lad."
"Can't," Rick said. "Where is Publius?"
"Camped nearby. All is well, Rick."
"Is there word from Marselius?" Drumold hesitated.
"There is, then."
"Aye. But-"
"Drumold, we have a battle to plan!"
"It will wait a day."
It won't, Rick wanted to say; but instead he let his head fall back on the pillow.
He awakened the next morning to the sounds of trumpets and shouting men. He tried to leap from his cot, but his ankle wouldn't hold him. Then Mason was there to help him back to bed.
"What-"
"It's nothin' to be worried about, Cap'n. Some bigwig from Marselius's army, with a legion for escort."
"A legion? That's Marselius himself!"
"Likely it is," Mason said.
"I have to go meet him-"
"How?" Mason asked. "You can't hardly stand long enough to dress yourself."
"Damn it, I can't greet Caesar from my bed! Get my robes!"
"Robes, hell," Mason said. "You go out, you wear armor. And you eat some hot soup first."
Soup. That sounded good. But armor? Yes. Not for the reason Mason thought. Not assassination; but it would be fitting to greet Marselius Caesar in armor. Marselius would be wearing his best, no question about that. "All right, help me get on my mail. The shiny set."
"How about this?" Mason asked. "Arrived an hour ago."
It was a new set of armor, featuring the breastplate fancied by Roman officers. Bronze oak leaves-no, by God, those were gold! — were soldered to the shoulders. There was a shirt with mail sleeves to go under it. The links were silvered, and the finest Rick had ever seen.
"Fancy enough," Mason said.
"A king's ransom," Rick said. "From Marselius?"
"No, sir. From Publius. In honor of your taking the bridge."
"I will be dipped in-" Publius? That ass?
The armor fit perfectly. Which of Rick's people had Publius got his measurements from? It hardly mattered. And certainly this was the right thing to wear…