"Pournelle,.Jerry.and.Green,.Roland.-.Janissaries.3.-.Storms.of.Victory.UC" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pournelle Jerry)

Publius Caesar—Marselius's son and heir.
Marcus Julius Vinicianus—Exiled Roman nobleman and chief spy for Gengrich.

The Enemies

Prince Akkilas—High Rexja Toris's sole surviving legitimate son.
Issardos—High Chancellor of the Five Kingdoms.
Matthais—Highpriest of Vothan.
Phrados the Prophet—Religious fanatic opposed to the united worship of Yatar and Christ.
Crown Prince Strymon—Heir to Ta-Meltemos.
Prince Teodoros—Strymon's younger brother.
Toris—High Rexja of the Five Kingdoms.
Volauf—Captain General to Matthais.
Walking Stone—Paramount war chief of the Westmen.

STORMS OF
VICTORY



PART ONE

Searching
CHAPTER 1

"Turn out the Guard! Corporal of the Guard, Post Number Twelve!"
Rick Galloway turned toward the window and frowned. Sounds of shouting and running men floated up from the cobblestoned courtyard six stories below. "What in hell?" Rick muttered. Then he shrugged. "Guess I'll find out if I need to know. Okay, Art, what's next?"
"Next you get your armor on. Flak jacket first, then the mail."
"Christ, Mason! I'll roast. Look, I don't have to wear this tonight."
Art Mason spoke slowly and carefully. "Colonel, why do we have to go through this every week? You're not leaving this room without armor, not without you sending me to the brig first. Look, we've got that nice Kevlar jacket Les brought you. Only thing like it on this planet. And don't ask me who's going to shoot you. You know damn well the little king has that Browning."
"Ganton wouldn't shoot me." Rick held out his arms and let Mason help him into the Kevlar vest, then the fine chain mail shirt that covered it.
"I grant you that, Colonel. But I can think of some in his court who'd be glad to borrow that pistol. With or without royal permission." Mason tugged on the straps. "And I grant you that Wanax Ganton needs you. The problem is, he knows he needs you. Kings don't like that. Neither do teenagers. We got a teenaged king, and if you know what he's going to do, you're doing better than me."
There were more shouts from below. "Sergeant of the Guard! Post Number Twelve. Officer of the Guard! Post Number Twelve."
"That sounds serious," Rick said.
"Yeah, maybe I better have a look." Mason glanced at his watch. "Better not. Can't let the troops think I don't trust them. Follow procedures—"
"Yeah. Follow procedures." Rick laughed, then went to the table and poured two glasses of wine. The table was massive, carved from a wood that had never grown on Earth. The goblets were gold, hammered with scenes of men riding centaurs and hunting strange beasts. Rick handed one to Mason. "Here's to proper procedures."
"Yeah." Mason sipped at his wine, then frowned as Rick drank his in a gulp. "Colonel, you drink too damned much."
"You sound like my wife. Are you my wife?"
"No, sir."
"I could say it's none of your business."
"No sir, you couldn't," Mason said. "Very much my business. Anything happens to you, and I'm supposed to be in command. Only you know damned well it won't work that way. Sergeant Major Elliot will choose your successor, and it may or may not be me."
"Well, nothing's going to happen to me tonight," Rick said. He poured another goblet of wine and sipped at it. "We were drinking to proper procedures. Ever think where we'd be if we'd followed procedures? What the hell is the procedure for meeting a flying saucer?"
"Yeah. Well, we managed all right," Mason said. "Bloody good thing it came along."
"Yeah. I guess."
"Guess, hell, Colonel. We were goners, and you know that better'n me." Mason swept his hand in a wide gesture to indicate the stone walls, tapestries, fireplace, and primitive furnishings of the room. "This may not be all we ever wanted, but it's sure as hell more'n the Cubans would have given us."
"Yeah, I know, Art, but ..." Rick let his voice trail off as he heard more shouts from outside. "Think we ought to look?"
"No, sir," Mason said. "Fact is, that's your biggest problem. Colonel, I grant you we'd have been finished a dozen times without you, and not much gets done except it's in your name—but that doesn't mean you got to do it all yourself. Procedures. Make policy, approve procedures, and then let somebody else do the work. You're going to wear yourself out if you keep on the way you're going."
Rick sat at the massive table and fingered a stack of documents. An ornate dagger served as a paperweight. "Think I wouldn't like to? Only how in hell can I make policy on stuff we've never done before? None of us have any experience handling primitives. And Romans. And barbarians. And—"
"Well, yes, sir, but—"
"And not even the locals have any experience living with a rogue star coming. Just legends." Rick tossed off his goblet of wine and poured another. "Policy! Procedures! The whole goddam planet's going to hell, and all they've got is a bunch of legends. Legends and us. And we don't know what we're doing."