But at least the chiefs would get a chance to fight.
They do, I don't, Rick thought. Not that I particularly want to. But this battle's all over except the cleaning up, and I haven't fired a shot.
Then he grinned when he remembered that he had fired exactly once.
4
The battle was ended. Wherever Rick went, the men raised cheers. Tamaerthon casualties were light, and the Romans were totally defeated. The triumph was complete.
But then he felt the elation drain away with the adrenaline that had sustained him. In the military history books, the battle ends with the victory. The chesspieces are swept into the box, and all is quiet.
But there was no quiet. There were the screams of pain, from horses and men, mingled with the shouts of triumph and joy from the victors. An archer sat stupidly as he watched the blood flow from an arm severed above the elbow. A Roman warrior writhed in pain as pikemen stripped off his armor and cursed him for bleeding on their loot. And everywhere the horses and centaurs screamed and shied away from blood.
The centaurs were the worst. Worse, somehow, than the dying humans, far worse than the horses. The beasts tried to use their ill-developed hands to pluck out arrows or stop the flow of blood. They were not intelligent enough to understand what had happened (in a million years, would they have evolved good hands and high intelligence?), but they were sentient enough to be aware. Like dogs, they howled and whimpered and begged their human masters for help that couldn't be given. Thank God, Rick thought; thank God the Romans used few of them.
And thank God this is done. With luck we won't have to do it again. I can be through with war. The battles in Africa weren't so bad. The helicopters came and took the wounded away. You didn't have to look at what you'd done.
He had no more time to brood. There were a million details to attend to at once. Stop the slaughter and let the Romans surrender: the aristocratic airs of Rick's heavy cavalrymen helped there. It was beneath their dignity to kill an enemy who couldn't defend himself. Some of them were even intelligent enough to realize that if your enemies thought they'd be killed anyway, they'd fight on after the battle was lost.
Slaves directed by Mason and his MPs stripped the dead and disarmed the captured. That couldn't be trusted to the clan warriors. And Rick had to convince the chiefs, and they had to convince the archers and pikemen, that the loot would be divided fairly. The idea that a battle was won by all and all should share in the spoils was new to the hillmen.
Cavalry screens had to be sent to keep contact with the Romans who had escaped and to watch for any new Roman units. Arrows had to be recovered from the battlefield and distributed. Midwives and priests to examine the wounded. Prisoners with deep punctures in chest or abdomen to be killed mercifully-there wasn't anything else you could do for them. Other kinds of wounds to be cauterized, or washed and bound up — thank God they hadn't come up with the insane theory of bleeding a wounded man!
And that's something I can do now, Rick thought. I can teach medical science. I don't know much, but I can teach the germ theory of disease, and antiseptic practices, and get some of the acolytes interested in anatomy and dissection. But how do we develop penicillin? Maybe we can't. Sulfa drugs? I don't know anything about them, either. No technology. No chemistry theory, no experimentalists, no scientific method. No surgeons, and I don't know enough, but I can make a start. I can teach them how to learn, and maybe one day a perforated gut won't be a death sentence.
Grooms and camp followers had to be sent to collect the captured horses. Let the centaurs go- those not mortally wounded. The hill clans weren't used to them and wouldn't keep them. Send more MPs to see that no one stole horses or ran away with loot. And total up the butcher's bill.
Medieval armies left that to heralds. After Agincourt the French heralds had inspected the battlefield and worked with the English heralds to collect the names of the dead and captured. That useful organization hadn't developed on Tran. Rick had tried to foresee the problems of victory and organize for them, but even so he had to be everywhere at once.
And everywhere he went, men stopped what they were doing to cheer him. He could feel pride in that. He'd won the battle, and it was worth winning. Without the grain, the hill tribes were doomed. And the cheers were important, too, if he were to have any control over them. Men want to cheer a commander who wins victories for them. But he wished they'd get on with the work and let him hide in the villa. It was a splendid victory, but he didn't want to see the battlefield any longer.
Tylara came into the villa leading a prisoner. "I have found the Roman commander," she said.
He'd been stripped of his armor and gold bracelets, but she'd let him keep his red cloak. Even with that, it was difficult for Rick to recognize him as the haughty officer he'd seen organizing the final charge.
Rick invited him to sit and sent for wine. The Roman seemed surprised. He studied Rick's face carefully and listened to his speech, then shook his head. "You are no Roman."
"Of course not," Rick said.
"I had thought these bar-these hillmen must have been led by an officer trained by Rome."
Rick smiled faintly. In a way, that was true, but hardly the way this man thought. "Lord Rick Galloway, war chief of the hosts of Tamaerthon," Rick said. Pretentious, he thought. Pretentious, but necessary. Perhaps he could use this man. Words cost very little. "I have long admired Roman ways," Rick said. "Your men fought well, as did you."
"Ah. I am Caius Marius Marselius, Prefect of the Western Marches."
"Prefect. In the Rome I knew, a prefect was both military and civil governor. Is that your office?"
"Yes." A gillie brought goblets of wine, and the Roman officer drank thirstily. "Thank you," he said to Rick.
Rick studied the Roman officer. "Head bloody but unbowed," he thought. A proud man holding his head up after defeat. But he knows he's beaten, and maybe he's sensible.
"You can prevent a great slaughter," Rick said. "We have come for grain and loot. Now that we've beaten your legion, there is nothing to prevent us from sacking the town of Sentinius. I would rather not do that. If you will arrange for the wealth of the town and the contents of the granaries to be loaded on wagons and brought to me, only officers to inspect the granary will enter the city. If you do not, we will take the town by storm, and there will be no controlling the men and the camp followers."
The Roman's eyes narrowed. "You ask for tribute from Caesar?"
Damn. Of course he'll see it that way. "No. I demand what is mine by conquest. I will have all of the grain and, much of the wealth. That is certain. The only uncertainty is whether or not the people of Sentinius and the city itself will survive the experience. Do you truly believe the citizens can oppose me now that their legion is destroyed?"
The Roman officer pursed his lips in thought. He took a deep breath and said, "No. The citizens would be killed to no purpose. How am I to arrange this?"
"You will be free to go. My cavalry will watch the city gates. If by sunset tomorrow there are no wagons of grain, then we will do as we will with Sentinius." Rick paused. Might as well sweeten the pot. "In addition, I will release your soldiers and whatever equipment we cannot carry with us the day we cross Caesar's borders to return to our mountains." Rick shrugged. "What use are they to me? We are not foolish enough to wait for a ransom which would likely be escorted by five legions."