JANISSARIES

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 wi

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 ca

Marselius seemed puzzled. "Now I am certain that you are not a barbarian," he said. "Who are you?"

"That is no concern of yours."

"Perhaps not. What assurance have I that you will not sack the city no matter what we do?"

"You have the word of a Tamaerthon lord," Tylara said coldly.

"I have seen you shouting at your officers to make them spare captives," Marselius said. "You are no barbarian." He seemed to take comfort from that. "Very well, I agree. But may I ask, why this concern with grain? In the past, the hill tribes have raided for other wealth-"

"I remind you that I also demand some of the more usual loot," Rick said. "Small valuables. Trinkets. Goblets. Cloak pins and ornaments. Jewelry. I do not doubt that your citizens will keep their most valuable objects, but make certain, that they send out enough gaudy luxuries to please my clansmen. As to why we are concerned with grain, if you care to return-as my guest-after the loot is transferred, I will tell you. It is a story worth knowing."

The last of the wagons rolled westward. They were an impressive sight; over a thousand wagons loaded with wheat and barley and oats and a grain that Rick had never seen before which grew on a plant resembling a giant sunflower, and produced a seed that more resembled rice than anything else. Other wagons were loaded with onions, spinach and other vegetables needed for winter nutrition. Fifty were loaded with heavy valuables-furniture and bolts of cloth and iron implements. The lightweight loot-rings and ornaments and personal arms-had been distributed to the army. Interspersed with the wagons were flocks and herds driven by camp followers and liberated slaves.

An impressive sight. Drumold had never seen its like. Everyone was certain there was food enough for all, enough to last through two winters- And they were utterly wrong.

Columns of pikemen and archers guarded the wagon train, and the light cavalry screens were well out to the flanks and forward to warn of any Roman attempt to recapture the loot of Sentinius. Rick took a position among Mason's mounted archers in the rear guard.

He shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, not caring for the weight of the Roman mail he wore. It itched. He'd rather do without armor, but that wasn't possible. He needed the armor and a personal bodyguard of freedmen loyal to no clan chief-and Mason at his back whenever possible. That wasn't because he was worried about the enemy; the problem was that he might be assassinated by his own officers.

The army was loyal enough. He'd won a complete victory with trivial casualties: a score of pikemen killed when the Romans managed to close with the first rank, another score of archers and pikemen cut down in the desperate fighting that closed the day, and nearly thirty heavy cavalrymen who hadn't sense enough to let the pikemen and archers do the work and had to go riding in to fight in personal combat with the defeated Roman heavies. Most of the armored men were related, and the survivors blamed Rick for their losses; if he had led the armored charge himself instead of riding to bring the pikemen in, they would not have lost sons and brothers.