"Trappings of civilization," indeed.
Prelotta was ambitious. And perhaps-it remained to be seen-had the intelligence to pull it off. He certainly had the willpower. One thing was certain: the chief of the Reedbottoms was determined to transform the balance of power within the Southrons themselves. Within a generation, no more, he intended to displace the Grayhills from their long period of predominance.
Doing so, however, required giving his own tribe a new basis for wielding power. That much of Adrian's transmission of his spirits' thinking Helga had no difficulty at all in understanding. So long as the Reedbottoms remained simply populous-their numbers were at least as great as the Grayhills-they would never become anything more than the "nephews of Assan." No other tribe tried to challenge the Reedbottoms seriously on their own terrain, true enough. But past attempts by the Reedbottoms to muscle their way out of the lowlands had been repulsed just as decisively.
The hardscrabble pig farmers of Vanbert had levered their way to power by using one of the tools of civilization: disciplined organization- government. That was beyond the still half-savage Reedbottoms. But a powerful military based on Adrian's new gunpowder weapons wasn't. Helga had understood another of Adrian's "historical dictums" quite well, from her experience with her brother's use of firearms: Guns spell the doom of nomad military strength. Always have; always will. Because barbarians can use guns, but they can't make them.
Somewhere far back in the great column of the Reedbottom army were the wagons of the blacksmiths. Those wagons were not the least of the reasons the column moved so slowly. They were almost manufactories-on-wheels. "Wagons" so big they reminded Helga of rolling houses-which couldn't possibly have been hauled by any animals smaller than the tuskbeasts of the Reedbottoms.
"How wide is the valley?" Adrian asked.
"Maybe ten miles, north to south; a bit less, east to west." For a moment, Prelotta's face twisted into a grimace. Half a grimace, rather; the kind of face a man makes when he's having second thoughts. "Are you sure you don't want the high ground? There's a very nice set of hills-"
"No," said Adrian firmly. "What's the point of high ground? Tomsien doesn't have any long-range artillery, and you're not going to be doing any cavalry charges. And if you did, you'd be using tuskbeasts anyway-which can't handle a downhill charge any better than your first mother-in-law."
That brought a little laugh from Prelotta and all his chieftains. The mother of his senior wife-who was no lightweight herself-was so obese she could barely move.
"A broad valley is what we want," Adrian continued. He turned slightly in his saddle and pointing back toward the column. "The laager should be a mile and a half around-almost half a mile across. Any smaller than that and you're wasting wagons-not to mention that you're probably going to need the room to fit all of the Jotties looking for succor and comfort."
Another laugh, and a bigger one. Whatever Prelotta's chieftains thought of his other ambitions, his determination to make the Reedbottoms preeminent among the tribes had their full approval. And nothing would advance that project further and better than defeating a major Vanbert army for the first time in history-with Grayhills and other routed Jotties huddling for shelter under Reedbottom protection.
"So be it," commanded Prelotta. He reached out both his arms and gave his hands a little forward flip, commanding his chieftains. "See to the thing! I want this column there by nightfall."
They obeyed instantly. Strange he might be to his subordinates, in many ways, but Prelotta was a charismatic leader. Even Helga would admit as much, his stench notwithstanding.
When the chieftains were gone, the stench came nearer. A minute later, as the column lurched back into motion, Prelotta was riding next to Helga.
Instead of Adrian. That was surprising. Prelotta was always polite to her, even pleasant, but he normally didn't pay much attention to her. As a rule, even among the chiefly class, the Southron tribesmen were easier going in their treatment of women than Vanberts-leaving aside the horrid practice of female circumcision-much less Emeralds or Islanders. But they still didn't include women in their political or military councils, even if they weren't kept secluded in their private homes the way noblewomen in civilized lands usually were.
"So tell me, Helga, what's your opinion?" He had a sly little smile on his face. Helga thought it looked even more hideous than the grin. "Should I adopt the Vanbert or Emerald custom, when it comes to public bathing?"
Jesting, is it? She gave Adrian a sly smile of her own.
"Ha!" she barked. "You savages parade around in public all but naked anyway. So why in the name of the gods would you want to saddle yourself with that Emerald silliness? Separate the sexes in the baths? That means twice the number of baths-and twice the work." With a sneer: "Only the damn Emeralds, who confuse simple arithmetic with 'Mystic Number,' would come up with such foolishness."
Helga glanced at Adrian to see if she was getting a rise out of him.
Nope. Hard to do, that. Harder than with any man I've ever known.
Adrian was smiling also. "I agree, Prelotta. And the gods know I'd rather look at naked women than naked men. I've been in both, and Vanbert baths are just plain more interesting. "
Prelotta nodded, as solemnly as if they were discussing the fate of the world. Which, in a weird and twisted way, Helga realized, they might be.
"Done, then. I shall so instruct my people." The solemnity was fleeting; the sly little smile was back. "And no doubt that will do much to reconcile my Vanbert subjects to their new status."
Helga tried to picture a Vanbert public bath, men and women mixed together casually, crowded with virtuous matrons and…
Dammit, I'm going to giggle again.
Chapter 24
Two days later, Helga had no trouble at all to keep from giggling.
"The gods save us," she muttered. From the top of the wagon where she was perched, she had a perfect view of the Confederate army. Tomsien might not have had her father's flair for war, but he was an experienced and capable field commander. Even with a force as gigantic as this one, his Vanbert regulars were spreading out in the valley and taking up their positions smoothly and easily. It was more like watching a machine than men.
She turned her head toward Jessep, standing next to her. The ex-soldier looked as tight-faced as she suspected she did.
"Never seen it from this vantage point before," said Yunkers softly. "Been in the middle of it, of course. Which, I can tell you, always gives a soldier a solid sort of feeling."
Grimly, he watched the Confederate army continue its evolution. "From this perspective, though, it's downright scary. If your man's scheme doesn't work the way he thinks it will…"
He left the rest unsaid. Confederate armies were almost always harsh toward defeated opponents, even civilized ones like the Emeralds. Toward barbarians-especially ones who had plundered the southern provinces as savagely as these had just done-they would be utterly merciless.
Granted, the infantry itself wouldn't be able to butcher those who managed to flee the immediate area of the battle before being swept up. Confederate regulars would maintain their disciplined formations at all times, and, in the nature of things, a single man-especially if he's mounted-can outrun a hundred moving together.
But that was one of the principal reasons the Confederacy employed auxiliary troops. Cavalry, mostly, the bulk of them from the Southron tribes themselves. Vanbert military tradition didn't consider cavalry of much use in an actual battle. Confederate generals used their cavalry for scouting, skirmishing-and to pursue and butcher a routed foe. Which task their auxiliaries handled splendidly, and the fact that they would be butchering other Southron barbarians wouldn't bother them in the least.