Deploy the Eighth against the barbarian cavalry which will surely be hidden on your right. Bring the Eleventh to archery range and shoot down those spearmen. Shoot enough and they will run. When you have broken through their line, ride behind the enemy. Ignore the balloon and whatever protects it. Sweep behind the barbarian force and fall upon Marselius in the center. As you do, I will send the other legions in a general charge. We will crush Marselius."

His enthusiasm was infectious, and the legate was caught up with it. "Hail, Titus Frugi!" he shouted as he rode away. When he was gone, Frugi's smile vanished. Go with God, Valerius, Frugi thought. As for me, I am afraid.

"I still think it's stupid," Art Mason said. "Hell, Cap'n let me go-"

"No. You and Elliot are needed here. Just see that Frugi doesn't break through anywhere. And look out for the king."

"Ye're daft," Drumold said. "But I hae long ceased to vex myself wi' thoughts of controlling you. Still, what will you accomplish?"

"Possibly nothing," Rick said. "But you exaggerate the danger. There is none to me, and little to anyone else. You do not have the game 'chess' here, do you?"

"Not by that name," Drumold said.

"No matter. It is a war game. There are many ways to win, but only one way to win quickly without great slaughter. Let's go." Rick waved his group forward:

Reznick, Bisso, and two other mercs, plus a half dozen Guardsmen. The mercenaries wore kilts and bright tabards, and their battle rifles were wrapped in cloth bowcases. From a distance they looked like any Tamaerthan light cavalry. They rode southeast, toward Marselius's legions. When they were close to the base of the ridge, they dismounted and turned the horses over to two Guardsmen. Rick led the others into the thin scrub that covered the ridge.

"Okay," he said. "This is as good a place as any."

The mercenaries shed their kilts and pulled on camouflage coveralls. The Guardsmen also abandoned bright colors and put on drab kilts and leather helmets. When they were dressed, Rick led them up the ridge.

Halfway up they paused in a wooded draw. Rick took out his binoculars, while Reznick shook out signal flags and waved them. Rick focussed in on the balloon, "Okay, they've seen us," he said. He watched the flag man. "L-E-G-I-O-N-S A-T-T-A-C-K-I-N-G L-E-F-T W-I-N-G.' Get the rest of that signal and acknowledge. I want a look over that way."

He couldn't see. The brush was too thick and the draw too deep. Then he heard distant thunder. The recoilless, and possibly grenades.

"Murphy says First Pikes are holding," Reznick reported. "No change otherwise."

"Nobody above us on the slopes?"

"Not until we reach the top."

"Okay. 'Let's move." They climbed up the draw.

When they were nearly at the top of the ridge, they took more signals from Murphy in the balloon. Rick nodded and waved Reznick forward.

Reznick screwed the sound suppressor on his 9mm Ingram submachine gun. He moved carefully up the draw, guided by Murphy's directions, until he was near a small thicket. The Ingram made no more noise than the loud tearing of cloth as he fired an entire clip into the bushes. Then he reloaded and went to inspect his work.

After a few moments Rick heard a low whistle. He waved the others forward.

Twice more Reznick took the silenced Ingram forward. Then they were at the top of the ridge.

"Move!" Rick ordered. "Up. Go like hell!"

They dashed over onto the level ground on top. Rick was panting, and his legs felt like lead. My arse aches, too, he thought. Hell, a man with piles didn't ought to be doing this! A Roman trooper stood just in front of him. Rick fired twice with his.45 and the Roman went down. Then there were two more Roman soldiers. One held his shield forward and raised his sword- Rick shot through the shield. Reznick fired from behind him and three more Romans went down. There were a dozen more dismounted Roman troopers. Reznick and Bisso fired at full automatic, short bursts, slow, methodical fire; the Romans collapsed in heaps. Then they faced five mounted Roman officers.

"Surrender!" Rick shouted. When one of the Romans wheeled, Rick shot his horse. The animal screamed in pain. "Kill the horses!" Rick shouted.

Bisso's battle rifle thundered. Then it was joined by two more. As the horses began to buck and plunge, a Roman in a scarlet cape leaped free and drew his sword.

"Hail, Titus Frugi!" Rick called. "Why throw your life away to no purpose? I have come to speak with you."

Frugi licked his lips and looked around. One of his officers was struggling to free himself from a fallen horse. Bishop Polycarp's animal had not yet been killed; His Grace sat with his hands raised as if in blessing. His other three officers were taken, struck down and seized by these grim men; and his bodyguards lay in heaps.

"Set up over there," Rick shouted. Bisso and the other two mercs laid out their battle rifles. "Anything comes over that lip, kill it." He turned to the Roman commander. "Now, Proconsul, let us talk."

"Who are you, barbarian?"

Hah, Rick thought. The way he asks that, it's a good thing I came myself. "Rick Galloway, Colonel of Mercenaries, War Lord of Tamaerthon-and friend to Marselius Caesar, who sends you greetings. Only two days ago I heard Marselius himself praise your courage and honor. And your good sense-however, you must not run away, Proconsul. And while I permit you to hold that sword for the moment, you must eventually put it down."

"While I hold it-"

"While you hold it you can kill yourself," Rick said.

"That, Titus Frugi, is forbidden," Bishop Polycarp warned.

"My Lord Bishop," Rick said. "I had hoped to include Your Grace in our meeting. Can you not prevail upon the Proconsul to lay down that sword?"

Titus Frugi looked around helplessly. His officers were taken or dead. The strangers looked perfectly capable of dealing with any rescue attempt-not that there was any sizable force nearby anyway. He stood shaking with rage and frustration, then threw down the weapon with a curse. "Speak, barbarian," he said. "I have little choice but to listen."

"Here they come," Art Mason raised his rifle. The two legions of cataphracti moved in formation, certain of themselves, riding proudly. The lead formation deployed, ready to ride through the chivalry of Tamaerthon to Drumold's banner lifted high above them.

The Roman trumpets sounded. Lances came down in unison. The Romans moved forward. At a walk. A trot- "Now," Mason said.

The light machine gun opened up in sharp, staccato bursts. Then the recoilless. The center of the Roman line went down; the troopers behind crashed into them, and the orderly line dissolved into confusion. The rear ranks crowded against each other.

"Fire in the hole!" Elliot shouted. The recoilless blasted again. More Romans fell. Their charge was broken before it had ever begun.

Tamaerthan and Drantos horse alike surged forward into the confusion. The Roman forces were bunched together, so that only the outer troops could use their weapons. The Allied cavalry, heavy and light alike, could dart in, strike, and dash back to charge again.

The other Roman legion reined in about a hundred yards from the pikemen and took out their bows.

Mason turned to his trumpeter and nodded. Shrill notes sounded, and two hundred Tamaerthan long-bowmen ran out of the trees where they'd hidden.

"Let the grey gulls fly!" Caradoc ordered. The first flight of arrows fell upon the Romans from behind.

The trumpets sounded again, followed by the thutter of drums and the squeal of pipes. First Pike Regiment surged forward at double time. They flowed across the ground toward the Romans.