Legacy (20 page)

They had moved eastward, through the lands of the Gallic Andecavi, slowed by constant small clashes with the Saxon raiding parties that infested the area. Now, at least, the Saxon control of the Loire had been broken; the Frankish auxiliaries of King Syagrius of Soissons, in a daring night action, had swum out to one of the Saxon-controlled islands near the confluence with the Maine, massacring its drunken defenders and seizing their boats. Now the allies had paused at this village to plan their next move, and here Tertullian and his bodyguard would catch up with the advance.

As they trotted down the slope, they passed a cavalry patrol—the village had only just been taken, and there were Saxons still believed to be in the area. They exchanged greetings with a couple of the men, who wore the red and white of the Artoriani. Tylar had explained the origin of the name. It was common late-Roman practice for a specially favored unit to be named after its commander, and these were the elite troops of Artorius Riothamus. But this particular name had other roots as well, sinking much further into the past. Tylar kept promising to tell him the full story.

They entered the outskirts of the largely burned-out village, and Sarnac braced himself. It was well that he did. Travelling in the wake of the advancing army, this was not their first sight of a village that the Saxons had occupied. But it was the worst, for they had now caught up to the main body of the army and fresh remains were still being burned or buried. They entered a central square where soldiers were removing that which the Saxons turned human bodies into.

Hanging from the X-shaped wooden frame to which he had been strapped, over a puddle of blood and worse, what seemed to have been a young man stared lifelessly at them with a face frozen in the horror of transcendent agony. There was something about his back—it couldn't quite be made out from this angle. Then they rode past him, and Sarnac saw. But his mind rejected it. The world spun, and he tasted bile.

A soldier began to cut the remains of another man from the frame. He was one of Syagrius' troop, and he wasn't young—he must have fought Saxons before, must have seen atrocities like these. His face was pale but rock-steady.

Sarnac held himself upright in the saddle and tried to gain control of his rising gorge.
I can't let these men see me vomit.
He nudged his horse forward, but not too fast, and left the scene from hell behind. Tylar rode next to him, watching him gravely.

"Were they trying to get information out of him?" he asked because he needed to talk, anything to fill the silence.

"Oh, no. Carving the Blood Eagle is for fun." Tylar's face hardened into an expression Sarnac had never seen on it. "We have to accept things as we find them, throughout human history. And because we may not interfere, we make it an inflexible rule never to take sides. But some people make that very difficult. The Saxons, for example. They are . . . animals."

They trotted on, beyond the village, to a field where tents had been raised and a long table set up. Around it, the commanders studied what this era was pleased to call maps, while their subordinates stood around under the trees. Servants moved about replenishing goblets with the local wine, which may have come from the vineyard off to one side—at least
that
was a reminder of the Loire valley Sarnac knew. He and Tylar dismounted and waited diffidently, trying to ignore the charnel smell from the village.

He looked curiously at the group around the table. Syagrius was short, even by current standards, young but stocky and tough-looking. He was wearing a Roman-style field uniform that, in this century, included trousers. His vassal king, Childeric of the Franks, was a striking contrast, a tall man with blondish, greying hair he wore in the distinctive style—drooping mustaches, side braids, and a rather ridiculous-looking topknot, with the back of the head shaved—and sported the garishly striped tunic favored by the Franks. Tylar had mentioned a widespread suspicion that he worked at being a colorful figure who the Romans were apt to underestimate. Sarnac, who had known similar types, was inclined to agree.

And then there was Riothamus. Sarnac had seen him a few times before, but not often, and only at a distance, for the High King had been spending most of his time in Nantes.

"Using the captured boats, we've taken these other islands," Syagrius was saying, pointing at a map. "For now, we control this part of the Loire. We can ferry our troops across the Maine and advance on Angers from the south. We can crush the Saxons between the anvil of Angers and the hammer of our advance!"

"Aye," Riothamus said slowly. "So we can. If, that is, they wait to be crushed. Now, if I were Odovacar I'd have some of my boats beached to the north of Angers, so I could escape with some of my forces in the event of an attack from the south, however successful."

"But that would mean going past the fortress at Angers!"

"That it would. And, to be sure, the defenders could do some damage from where they sit, overlooking the Maine. But most would get away."

"To meet my warriors among the Loire islands! Let them come!" Childeric tossed off a gulp of wine and belched resoundingly.
Yeah
, Sarnac thought,
he really does overdo the Barbarian Bruiser number.
But, he reflected, it might have something to do with the fact that Childeric, shortly after ascending the throne thirteen years ago, had been exiled for reason of overindulgence in distinctively Roman forms of vice. Afterwards, his people had sought the protection of Syagrius' father, Aegidius, beginning the Franks' subordination to the Kingdom of Soissons. Now, restored to the throne, Childeric clearly felt a need to appear more Frankish than the Franks. At least he couldn't try the noble savage number, having never heard of it; it lay far in the future, waiting to be invented by Jean-Jacques Rousseau (who never met real savages) and confirmed by Margaret Mead (who did, but chose to lie about them).

"Ah," Riothamus replied, "but Odovacar doesn't know for certain that the islands have been taken. At least we hope he doesn't. And so he'd sail on down with the fearlessness of ignorance—which, as we all know, can often work wonders in war, because we always assume our enemy will act sensibly."
And that,
Sarnac thought,
is as cogent a critique of games theory as I've ever heard.

Childeric seemed disposed to further bluster, but Syagrius waved him to silence. "But, Riothamus, what are you proposing? We
must
raise the siege of Angers!"

"Of course. But I don't just want to chase the Saxons away from Angers. I want to
annihilate
them!" Riothamus' dark eyes had taken on a look Sarnac hoped never to see across a battlefield, and responding growls arose from the men around the fringes of the field. Sarnac wondered what had ever given him the arrogance to think these men could have ridden through this village without feeling what he had felt.

"But how . . . ?" Syagrius began.

"I've been talking to some of the local Andecavi. They tell me there's a place up the Maine—about fifteen miles from here, nine or ten past Angers—where the river can be forded at the height of a dry summer like this one. I'll take the Artoriani north, while you cross the Maine down here with your forces and my infantry. We'll strike Angers from the north, when you've begun your attack from the south. The Saxons will be trapped, even if Angers has surrendered to them in the meantime!"

"But the risk!" Syagrius was visibly shaken. "You can't hazard your own person—the person of the High King—in this way! Send the Artoriani under the command of a trusted subordinate, and remain with the main body of your infantry."

Riothamus replied in a perfectly normal tone of voice, but his deep baritone filled the little clearing. "My place is at the head of the Artoriani, Syagrius, as it was the place of my fathers before me. For I was the
Pan-Tarkan
before I was the High King."

The term was not British, but Sarnac had learned it among the Artoriani. It meant "Dragon Leader" in the Iranian tongue of the Sarmatian horsemen, who had lost almost all the rest of the language through the generations in Britain. Even that term survived in a worn-down form—
pan
had originally been
panje
. But its meaning was not worn down at all, for it was the title of the hereditary commander of that unit from which Riothamus' heavy cavalry had grown.

As if in response to his words, a slight breeze picked up, causing the red dragon standard that had been set up on the edge of the clearing to stir and flutter. And the red and white clad men near it seemed to stand a little straighter.

Syagrius also knew its meaning. "Well, if you must . . ."

Riothamus smiled, and Sarnac realized that it had been a while since he had looked at, or for that matter
seen
, anyone other than the High King. "Cheer up, Syagrius! You have my word that I'll meet you before the walls of Angers!"

"Then I know you'll be there. You never broke your word to my father. And now," Syagrius continued, all business, "I need to give the orders for my troops' crossing of the Maine." The meeting broke up, and Tylar made a slight motion that Riothamus noticed.

"Ah, Tertullian! I see you've caught up with us. What news from your master?"

"He is well and sends his regards, Riothamus. His journey home was uneventful, and he has received confirmation of his election as Bishop of Clermont."

"Splendid! They couldn't have made a better choice. Convey my congratulations to His Excellency, and tell him I hope to see him early next year, after we enter the Auvergne."

"His Excellency shares that hope, Riothamus, and in the meantime, he asks a favor of you."

"Anything!"

"He has charged me with sending him a faithful account of this campaign—I believe he plans a new panegyric, of epic proportions. And he asks if I may be permitted to travel in your entourage, to be close to events."

Riothamus looked dubious. "You probably heard us just now, Tertullian. In the morning, I depart at the head of the Artoriani for Angers. It will mean hard riding, and harder fighting at the end. I'd feel responsible to Sidonius for your safety. Do you know how to use that . . . ?" He indicated what looked like a short sword.

"Alas, Riothamus, I fear I'm no fighting man. But I've engaged the services of a bodyguard, so you should not have to concern yourself with my survival." He gestured to Sarnac to step forward. "This is Bedwyr, under whose protection I should be quite safe."

"
Ave
, Riothamus," Sarnac greeted as he had been instructed. The honorific was used as a form of address, like "Augustus" for the Emperors—except by members of the Artoriani. They, and they alone, were entitled to address him as
Pan-Tarkan
. Recruits from the hills of western Britain, as was their way, wore the title down still further; on their lips it sounded something like
Pendragon
.

"Bedwyr, eh?" The High King smiled easily. "A fine British name if ever I heard one! Are you from the island?"

"My father Gerontius was, Riothamus. I was born in Armorica."

"Gerontius! I think I met someone by that name on my last visit to Armorica—I've spent almost as much of my reign there as in Britain, you know."

"My father died when I was a child, Riothamus," Sarnac said hastily. "And I've been away, in the service of the Eastern Emperor."

"Ah!" Riothamus' eyes flashed with interest. "In the Emperor Leo's army you must have seen cavalry that used stirrups. Did you get a chance to try riding with them?"

"I did, Riothamus." He caught a surprised glance from Tylar, but it was a safe statement. His implanted riding skill was with the stirrupless saddles of the Romans, but in his own world, he had done a little riding in his younger days. It should come back to him in no time—it was
so
much easier than clinging to a horse's barrel with your legs for dear life!

"Good! You'll be able to keep up with us. Tertullian, are you willing to try?"

"Your wish is my command, Riothamus. But . . . well, no offense intended, but it seems . . . ah,
innovative
."

"Ha! Barbarous, you mean! So the legions thought at Adrianople, ninety years ago, when the Gothic heavy cavalry rode over them. And the damned Goths learned about stirrups, and all the rest of it, from my Sarmatian ancestors!" He shook his head ruefully. "Well, then, it's settled. You can come. Good!" His face lit up with a smile whose boyishness was somehow not inappropriate among the grey hairs that were beginning to invade his dark beard. "I admit it: I'm just vain enough to relish the thought of being immortalized by Sidonius Apollinaris! Be sure to send him full accounts of the campaign . . . which of
course
won't be at all exaggerated!"

"Certainly not, Riothamus." Tylar was blandness itself.

"I am reassured." The dark eyes twinkled. "Kai, where are you?"

"Here,
Pan-Tarkan
." The young man's name was of Sarmatian origin but he couldn't have looked more Celtic, with his spun-copper hair and green eyes and the freckles beneath his weather-beaten tan.

"Kai, issue Tertullian and his bodyguard standard horse-gear. Tertullian may need help with it, but I don't think Bedwyr will."

Kai gave the grin that seemed to be his face's natural configuration. "Come on, I'll get you outfitted. It's over here. Bedwyr, you look like you're from the north country, being so dark but with blue eyes." Sarnac trotted out his cover story and kept Kai distracted from specifics until they had gotten their new horse-furniture. It turned out to include, in addition to the stirrups, a saddle deeper and with a higher cantle than the Roman ones.

"You know, Tertullian, this is something I've wondered about," Sarnac remarked when Kai was gone and they were alone with their horses. "Since Riothamus and his boys use stirrups, why doesn't
everybody
? I mean, it's such an improvement!"

"You underestimate the conservatism of preindustrial societies. It's not uncommon for a useful invention to be in clear view for centuries and not obtain general acceptance. The Artoriani use the device not because it's demonstrably more efficient, but because it's traditional—for
them
, in their own subculture. By the way, Riothamus is absolutely right about the Goths having acquired the entire panoply of heavy cavalry warfare from the Sarmatians, from whom they conquered the South Russian steppes. But after the events we're going to be witnessing, the stirrup will be forgotten; that, too, often happens in preindustrial societies. It will be reintroduced to Europe a century from now by the Avars, a people from Chinese Turkestan. Many later scholars will mistakenly hold that it was
initially
brought to this continent by them."