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"Slaves to be freed, except those who wish to go with the rest of you."

A surprising number always did. House niggers, she thought, and then chided herself. A lot of them wouldn't have many options, particularly women with young children.

"Where are we to go? The highlanders are loose in the land; that is why so many have fled within our walls!" the mayor burst out. "If you drive us out defenseless, they will kill us all before tomorrow's sunset!"

OK, that's a valid point… and we did arm the mountain men.

"Twenty soldiers may keep their rifles, with ten rounds each," she said. "Men may keep a sword or spear, if they have it. You ought to be all right if you keep together and head straight for the Great River, that way." She pointed southwest. "That's my final word, so don't try wheedling."

She made herself watch as the citizens shuffled out of the gates, bent under bundles of their belongings-there would be a thick scatter of abandoned household goods all across the countryside, soon enough; the smart ones would have confined the loads to money, a change of clothing, and all the food they could carry. The curses thrown at her were easy enough to take; the sheer hopeless misery of sudden poverty wasn't, or the crying of the bewildered children trudging by holding on to their mothers' skirts.

If I can order it done, I can watch, she thought, her face like something carved from ebony. Swindapa wiped away a tear.

"And this bit isn't much more fun," Marian muttered, once the Tartessians were gone.

Like all the towns they'd seen, this one had a broad central square; she wasn't sure if that was old Tartessian custom or something Isketerol had imposed. Right now it was crowded with about five hundred people, mostly men in rough clothing, with a scattering of women. Some of the slaves looked gaunt and terrified, or bore the marks of shackle and lash, or the scars of working with hot metal and inadequate protection. Others still were just the usual work-roughened Bronze Age locals. All of them hung back from the frightening novelty of the armored car, which gave a useful circle of free space. Marian took a long breath and looked down on the sea of expectant bearded faces turned toward her and shouted:

"You are free!"

Swindapa turned it into Tartessian, working in smooth unison with her partner. Marian relied on trained lungpower; no need to terrify them more with the megaphone. Stunned silence, then cheers; they'd probably been expecting a change of masters at best… or perhaps rumors about the Day of Jubilee had reached this far. Marian grimaced at an almost physical bad taste in her mouth.

"We cannot take you with us," she went on; experience had shown that was one of the first questions asked.

If we tried, we'd slow ourselves down and the Tartessians might be able to mousetrap us.

"We will give everyone here a rifle and ammunition."

From the town armory; stolen goods are never sold at a loss, as the saying goes.

"You may take what you will from the houses and storehouses." More cheers at that; a lot of the poor bastards would get no further than the wine jars, and still be sobering up when the Tartessian army arrived. "But be quick, for we will destroy this town."

She pointed northward. "You may run for the mountains and the forests, or try to make your way south to our bases. Either way, move fast, for the Tartessians will send soldiers here soon, and we are not staying. My advice is to take weapons, clothing, food, and tools only, and to run far and fast."

The crowd cheered again and broke up, murmuring. Some were wandering around aimlessly, others heading for something long desired. A few thoughtful or timid ones were making for the gates, determined to catch up with their former masters.

Sighing, she dropped back into the turret. "Let's get to work."

"I'm thinkin' that ours was the first major battle in history where both sides retreated afterward," Patrick O'Rourke said quietly, warming his hands at the stove.

Doreen Arnstein gave a slight sardonic snort and kept writing. Kenneth Hollard cast him a quelling look.

"Not a funny joke, Pat," he said, hanging up his sheepskin parka and going over to look at the map wall.

It was snowing again outside the shutters of the ex-Hittite villa. He could feel the force of the icy wind out of the northern mountains. It came sweeping down and onto the high plateau of central Anatolia and driving drafty fingers in here, despite tapestries and rugs.

"Damn," he said softly. "But I wish he'd come on after the fight."

"Well, it's a bit close to the ragged edge we were, at the time."

"He was closer. All the intel says so, and I could taste it. And he wanted to, too, I could feel that as well. Every time he hit us-when he was personally in command, I mean-it was like getting whacked upside the head with a crowbar. Then he just turned around and walked away when he had us rocked back on our heels."

"It was the smart move," O'Rourke said. "As you say, he was run ragged by then… not least thanks to Princess Rau-pasha and the others."

"Yeah. You know what annoys me about Walker?"

"The complete evil of the man, is it?"

"No, Paddy. That's why I hate him. What irritates me is that if he wasn't such an armor-plated swine, he'd be a really valuable leader… and we need those, God knows we do."

"If only the fellah hadn't had his conscience surgically removed, the pity and the black shame of it. But I can't see him taking out his own garbage for the compost wagon, like the chief or the commodore."

"There is that," Hollard said, looking at the map again and trying to force his enemy's intentions out of it by sheer will. Where? When? How?

"It's a map, not an oracle, Brigadier sir," O'Rourke said. His voice grew a little dreamy. "By the way, have you been givin' any thought to what you'll do after the war?"

"Hmmmm," Hollard said. I suppose I should, he thought with surprise. The Corps will be cut back drastically once we've won. Be a bit dull, drilling and the occasional skull-thumping expedition against some Sun People chief.

"You know, I haven't, not really."

"Not thinking of settling down here, then? Or taking up the pioneering life back home?"

Kenneth favored him with another glare at the gentle teasing. "No," he said shortly. "Live here? Not if I can avoid it." Not least because of the political complications. "And I helped my brother out at harvest time too often to have any illusions about farming." He grinned. "Why do you think I went into the Corps after the Alban War, Paddy, if it wasn't an easier way to make a living?"

"If you two gentlemen don't mind, we do have to win the war first…"

Doreen Arnstein was going over the papers at the head of the table, each pile arranged with her usual neatness and a cup of cocoa at hand; even near term her pregnancy didn't show much under the thick ankle-length wool robe. She spoke without looking up, her glasses on the end of her nose as she made a note in her small, precise hand.

And why is she smiling more? The official reports were that Ian was alive and in Walkeropolis, no more. She must know more than I do. Which was exactly as it should be, of course.

Ken stayed in front of the map drawn on the plaster of the wall, looking at the pins and wondering how many of them corresponded to something real.