The cavalry returned an hour past full light. "We found nothing," Drumold said. He pointed to the map spread on Rick's field desk. "So far as I can tell, we went to this spur of the ridge."

"A good ten stadia past where you should have been ambushed."

"Aye-"

"Meaning there will be an ambush there when the full army marches up that road," Rick said. "You can be sure of it."

"So what shall we do?" Balquhain demanded. "What would you do?" Rick asked. Balquhain spread his hands. "I know not, truly. Time was, and no so long ago, I would ride that road thinking myself safe. Now-now I see the danger, but. I know little what to do about it."

Nor I, Rick thought. I was about to say that- "My lord!" Jamiy burst in. "Lord, the Captain of the Guard sends word. New forces coming from the west."

"New forces?"

"Drantos soldiers, Lord. Royal Guardsmen."

"What the de'il?" Drumold demanded. "Why? Could aught be-no, no, I will not think such things."

Nor I, Rick thought. Lord God. And last night I betrayed her. Could this be Tylara coming? Or has something happened to her? Or-I'm a damned fool.

Camithon stood at the door. His head was bowed, and the old soldier actually stammered. "Lord-lord, I knew not how to prevent him. Aye, our young Wanax has grown-"

"And so you came with him."

"Aye," Camithon said. "What was my duty? I am a soldier. I know well enough that I am 'Protector' of young Ganton, not of the Realm, which I know not how to govern. And as our Wanax conceived this mad notion while the Lady Tylara was no more than a day's ride from the capital, I sent messengers to inform her that she should remain as Justiciar of Drantos, while I escort the Wanax. What else could I do, lord? For he would come. To prevent him I must lay violent hands upon him-and I cannot believe his nobility and Guardsmen would allow that. Must I then begin civil war?"

"No. Where is the king?"

"Ah-the servants are erecting his tent, and he is at his ablutions-in truth he hides until I bring him word of how you receive his visit. I think he fears you somewhat."

"He cannot overly fear me, or he would not be here. What forces have you brought?"

"A hundred lances, lord."

Three hundred heavy cavalrymen. Probably more; each lance was led by a knight, and many of them would have brought squires as well as men at arms.

Picked men, no doubt. Man for man as good as Romans. Possibly better. But not disciplined; a hundred Roman cataphracti would be more than a match for these three hundred.

But they were heavy cavalry, trained to fight in ranks three deep and cover a three-meter front. They could hold a third of a kilometer, at least for a while.

"And servants, and fifty porters leading a hundred pack animals," Camithon continued.

"Rations? How long can you live without forage?"

Camithon shrugged. "A day? There was little enough forage in the wake of this army!"

Rick nodded. Well, that was another four hundred mouths to feed. Plus horses, who'd need grain and hay. There'd be no centaurs among picked Drantos troops.

One more damn thing to worry about.

"This is primarily a Tamaerthan expedition," Rick said. "And it is my command. This is understood?"

"Aye, lord. By me and by His Highness."

"Good. Then have the courtesy to inform the Wanax that when His Majesty is finished with his ablutions, the Commander-in-Chief would like to see him."

Titus Licinius Frugi reined in his horse and resisted the impulse to stand in the stirrups. His officers were watching; they should not see him appear uneasy.

They were among a thin wood at the top of a long ridge that lay parallel to his enemy's line of march. They could see most of Marselius's force from here: the center, with Marselius himself, lay on Frugi's left, ready to march up the military road to Rome.

On that side Frugi had four legions to face Marselius. More than enough to sweep Marselius from the field-but that would be wasteful of men. Frontal assaults always were.

But if he could bring a legion around the ridge to take Marselius from behind- Marselius had entrusted his left wing to barbarians. To Frugi's right, at the bottom of the ridge, was a secondary road in a thin strip of cleared level ground perfect for his heavy cavalry. The barbarians, separated from Marselius by the ridge, would march into that.

He pointed to the road. "How far up it did they come?" he asked.

"There." One of his staff officers pointed down the slope.

"That far. Excellent." If the barbarians had scouted that distance last night, they would surely do so again now that they were marching…

First would come the barbarian light cavalry. They'd be no match for cataphracti; drive them back, back upon their own marching columns-and charge on, using the fleeing enemy as a screen.

And if the enemy came on without sending scouts ahead? Even better. The road ran between the forest and a stream. The barbarians would have to march close to the trees; close enough that their archers would have little time for their deadly volleys as his hidden troops burst out. Let his legionaries get among the archers, and the barbarian army was his. Kill the archers! The pikemen were not of themselves dangerous. Horse archers could shoot them down-provided that they were not in turn shot down by those bright-kilted fiends with their long, gullfeathered arrows that could outrange his best by half again.

He shuddered at the memory of the disaster at Sentinius. Not again! Never again would he send cataphracti charging at the pikes while the grey gulls flew in thick flights…

From his ridge he could see all the way back to the river. Most of it was fertile farmland, but there were scattered orchards, patches of forest, and low rolling hills to block his view.

A horseman rode up behind him. "It is a splendid view. A pity to spoil it with the ugliness of war."

"Yes, my Lord Bishop." And how much of that did my Lord Bishop Polycarp believe? Possibly all of it. To the best of Frugi's knowledge, Polycarp was a good man-despite having the favor of Flaminius.

Marselius, my old friend. Were you right to revolt? Has Flaminius the Scholar brought us to that? But civil war is always the worst of disasters, the worst of evils. Better a dozen bad emperors than an endless series of wars for the purple. Once, Rome ruled from the sea to the West Escarpment, to the borders of the Five Kingdoms. Aye, even the High Rexja sent gifts to Caesar. Then came a year when three Caesars claimed the throne at once.

"But will not the trees and hills there prove troublesome?" the bishop asked. "They will hide your enemy."

"They serve to block Marselius's view as well, Your Grace."

"And that is important?"

"All important, Your Grace. If we but knew where all of Marselius's forces were, we would have them. We could win a bloodless-well, nearly bloodless- victory."

"How is this?"

Have I better things to do than give lessons in tactics to a servant of the Prince of Peace? No. Not for an hour. Perhaps longer. "If we know where each is, we can concentrate all our force against a small part of theirs. Break through their line, sweep about their flanks, come from behind. Their soldiers like this war no more than we. Given the chance, they will come to us rather than die for Marselius."

"Will you give them quarter, then?"

"Yes."

"Yet Caesar has ordered-"

"I know what Caesar has ordered, Your Grace. And I know what I must do. I will send the remnants of Marselius's force to the frontier posts." If there are any remnants. I have six legions. Two that Marselius doesn't know about. Enough force to roll right over, smash my way-"I will give them quarter if I can."