David Drake & Eric Flint - The Tide of Victory

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The Tide of Victory

Eric Flint and David Drake

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are

fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

in any form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-671-31996-5

Cover art by Gary Ruddell

First printing, July 2001

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Flint, Eric.

The tide of victory / by Eric Flint & David Drake.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-671-31996-6

1. Belisarius, 505 (ca.)–565—Fiction. 2. Generals—Fiction. I. Drake,

David. II. Title

PS3556.L548 T54 2001

813'.54—dc21 2001025729

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

As this series has progressed, a number of people have provided us with assistance in one

manner or another. It's time to thank them:

Conrad Chu

Judith Lasker

Joe Nefflen

Pam "Pogo" Poggiani

Richard Roach

Mike Spehar

Ralph and Marilyn Tacoma

Detlef Zander

. . . and probably several others I've forgotten to mention, for which my apologies in advance.

I'd also like to take the opportunity to thank Janet Dailey for the many ways in which she's

helped me out over the past year or so. I can't remember if that assistance involved my work on

the Belisarius series, but it probably did—and even if it didn't, she's way overdue for my public

appreciation anyway.

Eric Flint

January, 2001

To Dick and Dolores

The Belisarius Series

An Oblique Approach

In the Heart of Darkness

Destiny's Shield

Fortune's Stroke

The Tide of Victory

The Dance of Time (upcoming)

BAEN BOOKS by ERIC FLINT

Mother of Demons

1632

Rats, Bats, and Vats (with Dave Freer)

The Philosophical Strangler

Pyramid Scheme (with Dave Freer—upcoming)

BAEN BOOKS by DAVID DRAKE

RCN series

With the Lightnings

Lt. Leary, Commanding

Hammer's Slammers

The Tank Lords

Caught in the Crossfire

The Butcher's Bill

The Sharp End

Cross the Stars

Independent Novels and Collections

The Dragon Lord

Birds of Prey

Northworld Trilogy

Redliners

Starliner

All the Way to the Gallows

Foreign Legions (created by David Drake)

The General series

(With S.M. Stirling)

The Forge

The Chosen

The Reformer

The Undesired Princess and The Enchanted Bunny

(with L. Sprague de Camp)

Lest Darkness Fall and To Bring the Light

(with L. Sprague de Camp)

Enemy of My Enemy: Terra Nova

(with Ben Ohlander)

Armageddon

(edited with Billie Sue Mosiman)

PROLOGUE

Knowing what to expect, the two sisters had already disrobed by the time their new owner

returned to his tent. The older sister's infant was asleep on the pallet. The sisters were a bit

concerned that the ensuing activities would awaken him—the pallet was small and thin, oddly so

for such an obviously wealthy man—but not much. The baby was accustomed to the noise, after

all, having spent the first year of his life in a brothel crib.

Unless, of course, their new owner was given to bizarre tastes and habits . . .

That was the real source of the sisters' anxiety. For all its foulness, the brothel had at least

been fairly predictable. Now, for the first time since their enslavement, they faced an entirely new

situation. New—and unsettling. Their new owner had said nothing to them, other than

commanding them into his tent after his caravan stopped for the night.

But, as they waited, they took solace in the fact that they were still together. Against all odds,

they had managed to keep from being separated during the long years of their captivity.

Apparently, it tickled their new owner's fancy to have sisters for his concubines. They would see

to it that he was satisfied with the result. In that manner, they might preserve the remaining

fragment of their family.

So it was, when their new owner pushed back the flap and entered the tent, that he found the

sisters reclining nude on the pallet. The fact that they were holding hands was the only indication

that any uneasiness lurked beneath their sensual poses.

Standing still and straight a few feet from the pallet, he studied them for a moment. The

sisters found the scrutiny unsettling. They could detect nothing of lust in that gaze. For all the

natural warmth of the man's dark brown eyes, there seemed to be little if any warmth in the eyes

themselves. And not a trace of animal heat.

That was odd. Odder, even, than the austerity of the pallet and the tent's furnishings. Their

new owner was obviously as healthy as he was rich. He was not especially tall, but his broad

shoulders and lean hips were those of a physically active man. And there was something almost

feline about the way he moved. Very poised, very balanced, very quick.

"Stand up," he commanded abruptly.

The sisters obeyed instantly. They were accustomed to inspection by prospective customers.

As soon as they were on their feet, both of them assumed familiar poses. Languid, sensual,

inviting. But they were still holding hands.

"Not like that," he said softly. "Just stand straight. And turn around slowly." His thin lips

curved into a smile. "I'm afraid you'll have to stop holding hands for a bit."

Flushing slightly, the sisters obeyed.

"Slower," he commanded. "And lift up your arms so I can see your entire bodies."

This was not customary. The uneasiness of the sisters mounted. The last characteristic that

slave prostitutes wanted to see in a new customer was different. But, of course, they obeyed.

In the long minutes which followed, the sisters found it increasingly difficult to keep the

worry out of their faces. Their new owner seemed to be subjecting every inch of their bodies to a

detailed and exhaustive scrutiny. As if he were trying to commit them to memory.

"Which of these scars are from your childhood?" he asked. His voice was soft and low-

pitched. But the sisters took no comfort in that mild tone. This was a man, clearly enough, who

had no need to raise his voice for the simple reason that command came easily to him. He would

not be denied, whatever he wanted. Which, again, was not a characteristic which slave prostitutes

treasured in their customers. Especially new and unknown ones.

They were so startled by the unexpected question that they did not respond immediately.

Instead, they exchanged a quick and half-frightened glance.

Seeing the glance, their new owner's face broke into another smile. But this one was not thin

at all, and seemed to have some actual humor in it.

"Be at ease. I have no intention of adding any new scars to the collection. It is simply

information which I must have."

The smile disappeared and the question was asked again. This time, with firm command.

"Which scars?"

Hesitantly, the younger sister lifted her left leg and pointed to a scar on her knee. "I got this

one falling out of a tree. My father was furious with me."

Their owner nodded. "He would know of it, then? Good. Are there any other such? Did he

beat you afterward? And, if so, are there any marks?"

The sisters looked at each other. Then, back at their owner.

"He never beat us," whispered the older. "Not once."

"Our mother did," added the younger sister. She was beginning to relax a bit. Enough that she

managed a little chuckle. "Very often. But not very hard. I can't remember even being bruised."

The man shook his head. "What kind of silly way is that to raise children? Especially girls?"

But the question was obviously rhetorical. The smile was back on his face, and for the first time

the sisters detected the whimsical humor which seemed to reside somewhere inside the soul of

their new owner.

He stepped up to the older sister and touched her cheek with his forefinger. "That is the worst

scar. It almost disfigures your face. How did you get it?"

"From the brothel-keeper."

The man's eyes widened slightly. "Stupid," he mused. "Bad for business."

"He was very angry with me. I—" She shuddered, remembering. "The new customer had—

unusual demands. I refused—"

"Ah." With a light finger, he traced the scar from the ear to the corner of her mouth.

"I think he forgot he was wearing that huge ring when he slapped me."

"Ah. Yes, I remember the ring. Probably the same one he was wearing when we conducted

our transaction. A large ruby, set in silver?"

She nodded.

"Excellent," he said. "Easy for you to remember, then."

He turned to the younger sister. Placing one hand on her shoulder, he rotated her partway

around. With the forefinger of his other hand, he traced the faint lines across her back.

"These are your worst. How?"

She explained. It was a similar story, except the individual involved had been the chief pimp

instead of the brothel-keeper, and the instrument had been a whip rather than a ring.

"Ah. Yes, I believe I met him also. Rather short, squat. The little finger of his left hand is

missing?"

The two sisters nodded. He returned the nods with a curt one of his own. "Excellent, also."

He stepped back a pace or two. "Can either of you write?"

The sisters were now utterly confused. This man was the weirdest customer they had ever

encountered. But—

So far, at least, he did not seem dangerous. The younger sister spoke first. "Not very well."

"Our father taught us a bit," added the older sister. "But it's been a long time. Several years."

Both of the sisters, for the first time, found it almost impossible to maintain their poise.

Memories of their father were flooding back. Their eyes were moist.

The man averted his gaze, for a moment. The sisters took advantage of the opportunity to

quickly pinch the tears away. It would not do to offend their new owner.

They heard him snort softly. "Taught his daughters! Scandalous, what it is." Another soft

snort. Again, the sisters thought to detect that strange whimsical humor. "But what else would

you expect from—"

He broke off abruptly and looked back at them.

"In a few days, you will write a letter. As best you can." Seeing the uncertainty in their faces,

he waved his hand idly. "I am not concerned if the handwriting is poor. All the better, in fact."

His eyes moved to the pallet, and then to the baby asleep to one side. "It will be crowded,

with the four of us." Again, the thin smile. "But there's no help for it, I'm afraid. Appearances

must be maintained."

Moving with that unsettling ease and speed, he glided past them and reclined on the pallet. He

was lying on the opposite side from the infant. He patted the middle of the pallet with his hand.

"Come, girls. Sleep. It has been a long day, and tomorrow will be longer. And the days after,

as well. We have a considerable distance to travel."

Quickly, the sisters did as they were told. After the confusion of the preceding minutes, they

almost found comfort in this familiar process. Not quite.

The younger sister lay next to him. The gesture of protection for the older came automatically

to her. The two of them had protected each other for years, as best they could. If she exhausted

him, he might be satisfied. Her sister's infant would not be disturbed.

Their new owner was still fully clothed. She began to stroke his chest, her fingers working at

the laces.

Her hand was immobilized by his own. The man's grip was gentle enough, but she could

sense the iron muscles and sinews in his hand.

"No," he said softly. "That is all finished. Just sleep." He moved her hand away.

Uncertainly, she obeyed. She stared at his profile. He was not a handsome man, not in the

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TheTideofVictoryEricFlintandDavidDrakeThisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoincidental.Copyright©2001byEricFlintandDavidDrakeAllrightsreserved,includingtherighttoreproducethisbookorportionsthereofinanyform.ABae...

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