systematically.
Adrian pondered the computer's words. Slavery was a familiar enough practice among the Southrons. But it had what you might call a 'casual' nature. Most slaves were members of another tribe captured in the course of the barbarians' incessant internecine warfare. Treated savagely, at the time of capture-but then, usually within a generation, absorbed into the capturing tribe. The slaves were more in the nature of trophies and personal servants than a labor force subjected to systematic exploitation.
Prelotta, Adrian knew, intended to change that. The other Southron tribes had joined this great invasion for the customary reasons-loot, and the prospect of 'martial glory.' Only Prelotta was thinking further ahead than that. He intended to occupy this territory, and remain there after the other tribes returned south for the winter. Prelotta was thinking like a conqueror, not a raider-and for that, he needed a subject labor force.
Helga was still glaring at him. Adrian tried to think of what he might say to mollify her, but the only words which came to him were… best left unspoken.
This is really no different from what your father's doing in the islands, love. In principle, at least. Use a conquered land's resources and labor force to enhance your own power and wealth. Um. Granted, the methods are dissimilar. Um. To put it mildly.
The methods are what matter. A civilized conqueror-one, at least, who's willing to think like a civilized man- can substitute mercy for cruelty and forethought for rapine. So, in a generation-even less-Verice Demansk stands to rule over a realm even richer than it was, and with a subject population that is not really that discontented with its new rulers. Because they, too, are sharing in the new wealth. And even enjoying their new status, if the conqueror is a very intelligent man. Which we think Demansk is.
Then, with his usual wry humor: But I agree that your lady love probably doesn't want to hear it, at the moment.
To Adrian's relief, Helga's angry expression faded and was replaced by simple sternness. 'Leaving aside everything else,' she grumbled, 'these savages are going to be so much pig feed once Tomsien gets here with a real army.'
She turned in her saddle and cast a sour glance back at the huge plodding column of Reedbottoms in their war wagons. 'Unless this fancy scheme of yours works. I have my doubts. Savages are savages, I don't care how fancy their weapons are. No staying power, once they hit something tougher than a village of peasants.'
Adrian cleared his throat. 'Well… that's a bit uncharitable. They're quite courageous, you know. If that weren't true, the Vanbert regulars wouldn't use them as auxiliaries.' He decided it was time to point out that Helga was being a bit self-righteous. Pointing ahead: 'Tomsien will have several thousand tribesmen under his own command, you know, in addition to his ten brigades of regulars.'
Helga didn't seem much impressed. Nor, to be honest, was Adrian himself.
Ten brigades, the gods save me. Even allowing for most of them being understrength, that's still something like fifty thousand men. The biggest army ever fielded in the history of the world, leaving aside the tales in ancient legends.
You won't have to face that many, countered Raj. If I were in Tomsien's place-and I've been there, lad-I wouldn't be bringing more than six of those brigades. That'd be more than sufficient, under normal circumstances. Which these aren't, because of the Hussite tactics you'll be using. But Tomsien won't understand that. In fact, he probably doesn't even know about it. From what I can tell, at least, he's been incredibly lax about gathering intelligence.
Center interjected. always a mistake, dealing with barbarians. especially because spies are so easy to hire. one tribe will readily spy on another, and vice versa, for a small amount of money or trade goods. but tomsien suffers from the typical arrogance which afflicts empires in decline.
Again, Adrian chewed on Raj's words. He was inclined to trust the former general's assessment. Adrian had gained a lot of experience over the past two years, but he knew full well that he wasn't and never would be Raj Whitehall's equal as a military leader. Still…
But why not bring all ten? I would.
It was always a little weird 'hearing' a disembodied and ghostly snort of derision. But that was surely what came to his mind from Whitehall.
Stop thinking like 'you.' You wouldn't have been squeezing your provinces dry the way Tomsien's been doing. You've got the mind of a scholar and an artisan, not an imperialist grandee. tomsien can't afford to strip his provinces of his troops, echoed Center. he'll likely have rebellions springing up all over the place. as ruthlessly as he's been ruling his provinces, he may get them anyway-even with four brigades in place to suppress them.
He'll sure as hell get them after he's defeated in battle.
Which remark brought everything back full circle. Adrian sighed. 'After he's defeated'… easy for Raj to say. But Whitehall was a ghost, when all was said and done. Defeating Tomsien's great army would have to be done in flesh and blood-with Adrian himself the key to it.
'I hope you and Father know what you're doing,' repeated Helga, in a tone which was still surly.
'So do I,' muttered Adrian Gellert, former Scholar of the Grove. 'So do I.'
Chapter 22
'At least take soldiers with you,' protested Kata.
Ion Jeschonyk gave his young concubine's cheek a little pat. 'T'would be unseemly, girl. Dignity, you know? A Councillor's got to have it, at all times-to say nothing of a Speaker Emeritus and a Triumvir-or his reputation is ruined. Not even Marcomann went to Council meetings with a bodyguard.'
Jeschonyk saw no reason to add: Of course, Marcomann was a lot younger than I was, and a deadly man with a blade in his own right. Not to mention being six feet tall, with shoulders like a greatbeast.
Kata was not going to be brushed off. Jeschonyk had suspected as much. She didn't usually accompany him as far as the front gate when he left his mansion. 'I don't care. The city's not the same any more. The street gangs are everywhere, now-all the servants say so-bolder than ever. And-and-'
She groped for words. Kata's cloistered existence-using the term 'cloistered' loosely-didn't really give her much of a clear understanding of Vanbert's politics. But even a young concubine, whose life experience since her capture from barbarians at the age of fourteen had been restricted to a wealthy nobleman's villa, could sense that the capital had become dangerous. Even for a man as powerful as Jeschonyk. Perhaps especially for a man like Jeschonyk.
For a moment, the old politician simply basked in the warmth of her concern. His relationship with Kata had changed, subtly, over the past few months. He'd even found himself-quite often, in fact-spending his nights alone with her, instead of in his usual orgiastic custom.
Still, she was a concubine. More to the point, she was young-and truly innocent of the ways of the world. So there was really no way that Jeschonyk could explain, in any words that would mean anything to her.
In truth, he barely understood it himself. Rather to his surprise, Ion Jeschonyk had discovered that in the twilight of his life he was giving thought to the future. More thought, and deeper thought, than he ever had before- and, which was especially surprising, thoughts which centered on his nation rather than he himself.
It's called a 'sacrifice,' sweet girl. Sometimes a nation needs one-and sometimes, whether you like it or not, you're selected for the chore.
A stray memory came to him suddenly, about the customs he'd heard were practiced by Kata's tribe.
'I never asked, now I think about it. Never cared, really. But are you a follower of the Young Word?'
Kata's expression combined puzzlement-and a trace of worry. 'Yes. I haven't done the rites much, for many years now. But my clan belonged to the faith. Why?'
'Did you ever wonder why the prophet allowed himself to be murdered? From the way I heard the story, he'd been given a warning and could have fled.'
Now, the worry swamped the puzzlement. 'What is this you're telling me?' The subservience of a slave concubine vanished, replaced by a scolding finger which would have been the envy of any middle-aged matron of Vanbert. 'Stop this nonsense! You're too old, anyway, to be a prophet!'
Jeschonyk laughed. Then, gave Kata a hug. 'True enough, true enough. I certainly can't claim to have any
