by Alan Smale
He turned and walked away without looking back.
Rounding the lane’s end, he glanced casually up at the signum. Third Century, Fifth Auxiliaries. Aelfric’s cohort. A minor incident, but potentially a harbinger of worse to come.
Apparently, his men also felt the waning power of Roma. The farther west they went with no visible gain or reward, the more his Legion threatened to degenerate into a mob. Marcellinus could imagine another thousand miles ahead of them. And another. How far could they march before all order would be lost?
Of course, they’d probably starve first.
A week later they found the remains of one of their Norse scouts tied to a tree, carefully positioned in the path of their relentless advance.
Thorkell Sigurdsson would march no more. His thighs were blackened stumps, his legs burned off completely to just above the knee. His face was intact but hideously distorted. He had received a haircut clear through to the bone; his scalp had been hacked away, revealing the gray-white of his skull. His chest was a bloody hole where his tormentors had torn out his heart.
The wreckage of the scout was an essay in torture and barbarism. It was an act of appalling atrocity, and judging by the decaying state of the body, it had happened several days earlier. The Romans might not know exactly the route they would take, but the Iroqua did.
Once more the Legion had come to a halt. The standard-bearer looked like he might throw up at any moment, his eyes darting about nervously.
Marcellinus did not fear an ambush. They stood in a meadow with the trees well separated and little undergrowth, and they could see for hundreds of yards in each direction. The Iroqua had arranged their violent tableau with care and would allow time for the lesson to sink in.
Very well. But the lesson his men learned might not be the one the Iroqua had intended.
“Bring me my tribunes,” said Marcellinus. “Then have the cohorts march past this spot. Parade order, half speed, no chatter.”
Pollius Scapax nodded. “Helmets?”
Helmets off would have been the standard mark of respect, but this was enemy territory. “On. Sigurdsson would understand.”
Flanked by an honor guard of tribunes and holding the Legion’s golden eagle standard in his own hands, Marcellinus stood to attention by Thorkell Sigurdsson’s side for the two hours it took the Legion to march past. On each of the three thousand faces, legionaries and auxiliaries alike, he saw the same expression: neither fear nor revulsion but respect tinged with a steely determination.
Toward the rear of the army came the baggage carts, hauled by their slaves. Marcellinus stared hard-faced as the Hesperians trudged by with their shoulders to the wheel, but none of them showed disrespect to the dead man. Most, in fact, looked quite sickened at the spectacle.
“That man,” said Marcellinus. “Fuscus. Fetch him.”
Pollius Scapax strode into the baggage train, cuffing men aside until he reached the word slave. He hacked through the cord that bound Fuscus to the cart and hauled him out unceremoniously. The five braves that remained tethered to the vehicle leaned into their task even more grimly.
Marcellinus drew his gladius and whacked Fuscus on the back of his thighs with the flat of the blade, driving the word slave to his knees. Fuscus bit off a scream as he found himself face-to-face with Sigurdsson but cried out in earnest when Marcellinus struck his bare shoulders another blow.
“This is what your people do? The cowardly maiming of captives!”
Fuscus gaped at the ruined Norseman. “Is not!”
“We don’t need you anymore, verpa. Know why? Because there will be no more talking to your people. Only killing.”
“Marcellinus, man, let him be. His kind didn’t do this.”
Marcellinus whirled, and the point of his gladius stopped inches from Aelfric’s throat. “What?”
Aelfric took a slow step back from the blade. “Sir, Fuscus here, he’s coastal. His Powhatani are crab eaters and berry pickers. The savages hereabouts are of a different stripe.”
“Iroqua,” said Fuscus. “Men of hurt. Many take—”
“More warlike,” Aelfric interrupted. “The savages we’re seeing around here are painted odd, and they move different. They’re real hunters and killers.” He gestured at Sigurdsson’s body. “If the Iroqua got their hands on Fuscus, they’d probably do this to him.”
The Praetor looked down. Fuscus was groveling so hard that he was practically tunneling into the ground. He seized Fuscus by his topknot and dragged the man up onto his knees.
“Look, spare him,” said Aelfric. “God knows we might need—”
Marcellinus slit the word slave’s throat. He died quickly, gurgling, his eyes bulging almost out of his head as he drowned in his own blood.
“Never mind,” said Aelfric.
Marcellinus swayed. Had he really just slain a defenseless man in anger? Would he have done such a thing anywhere other than this despicable, gigantic, savage land?
He pulled himself together. His legionaries had died more barbarically in the trees and from the air. And here was Sigurdsson, scalped, burned, maimed. Marcellinus let go of Fuscus, and the word slave’s body tumbled forward onto the ground.
Aelfric was staring. “Something you wanted to say?” Marcellinus said coldly, his sword still unsheathed.
The Briton shrugged. “Me? No. We don’t need him. There’ll be no more talking to his kind.”
“That’s right.”
The atmosphere over the glade remained icy as the last echelons of the Legion straggled past. At the end, Corbulo cleared his throat, stood easy, and broke the silence. “Good. The men are fired up now. I pity the poor red bastards we encounter next.”
Marcellinus nodded tautly. Corbulo and his other tribunes saluted him and the hideous remains of Sigurdsson once more and rode forward to rejoin their cohorts.
The Praetor looked down again at the mutilated body of his Norseman and for the first time on this campaign felt genuinely exhausted. Not just in his body, because physical weariness was a constant aspect of commanding a legion, but also in his soul.
All his life he had fought for Roma, struggled for rank and authority, just to be sent westward into a brutal wilderness on a fool’s errand. To see his men killed slowly, one by one.
Yet again, Aelfric had presumed to stay behind. “They knew the path we’d take,” said the Briton. “They arranged him here, right in our way. You bloody Romans and your straight lines.”
“For gods’ sakes, we want to be predictable,” said Marcellinus. “We know where we’re going. So do they. We want to fight them. Let the scum try to stop us. And in case you’ve forgotten, you’re a Roman, too.”
“I wonder what became of the other scouts,” Aelfric said moodily.
Enslaved, perhaps. Or cooked and eaten for all they knew.
“March on, Tribune,” Marcellinus responded gruffly.
He felt dazed. Could the Hesperians really not distinguish between soldiers and scouts? Did they intuit nothing of civilized conduct? How could a war even take place without scouts to guide the armies together?
“Cowards,” he said. “An entire landmass of bloody cowards.” Corbulo was right, after all.
Marcellinus and his tribune were off the back of the Legion now, guarded only by First Centurion Scapax and four contubernia of trusted soldiers. Normally it would be untenable for a legion commander to be this exposed, but the undergrowth was sparse and the sight lines long. A quarter mile away, and despite the recent passage of his army, he saw a pair of white-tailed deer meandering through the trees. This was very different terrain from the dense woods that lined the coast of the Chesapica.
The sandals of thousands of marching Romans and the wheels of dozens of baggage carts had beaten quite a furrow into the meadow floor. Marcellinus looked down thoughtfully, then stepped onto undisturbed ground.
“Praetor,” said Scapax. “We must advance and rejoin the Legion.”
Scapax might well worry. By law he fac
ed summary execution if his Praetor came to harm while under his protection. Marcellinus didn’t think it too likely to happen today. Squatting, he slipped his fingers into the rough grass and probed the loam beneath. His hand came up streaked with charcoal and ash.
“They make this,” he said. “D’you see?”
“Let’s go, sir,” Scapax said.
“The redskins. They burn away the undergrowth with care so the deer and elk can graze and they can see clear to shoot them from afar with bow and arrow. And the trees here: chestnuts, hickory nuts. It’s …” Words suddenly failed him at the magnitude of what he was saying. “This is a park, not a forest. It only looks natural. They tend this. Our dusky savages practice land husbandry.”
The centurion came to Marcellinus’s side. “Now, sir, if you please.”
Behind the trees, Marcellinus saw something gliding high and straight on the breeze. He squinted at it, pretty sure it was a hawk and not a man.
“Don’t make me order the good centurion to carry you,” Aelfric said mildly.
Marcellinus turned on him. “You forget yourself. Why didn’t you leave with the other tribunes?”
At his tone, Aelfric quickly stood to attention. “Sorry, sir.”
“You and I, Tribune, we’re not friends.”
“No, Praetor.”
“Your place is with your cohorts.”
“Yes, Praetor.”
“Then get back to them!”
“Yes, sir.” Aelfric made haste to depart.
Straightening, Marcellinus walked back and placed his hand on the shoulder of his maimed scout, looking at Sigurdsson’s eyes rather than his injuries. “Thank you, my friend. Watch the road for us till we return.”
Only then did Marcellinus allow his guards to pace him back into the protection of the Legion.
“I heard the speech you made for Sigurdsson earlier this evening,” said Isleifur Bjarnason. “A pretty thing it was. Excellent and rousing. You’ll really take the time to grind the redskins’ bones?”
Marcellinus whirled. He had dismissed his guards for the night and had believed himself alone in his Praetorium. But there sat another of his long-missing Norse scouts, on the same blanket Sisika had occupied. His flaxen hair was filthy and pulled back into a long braid, and his clothes were darkened with dirt and green smears, indicating a great deal of time spent concealed in foliage.
The Praetor recovered his composure quickly, as if men crept up on him every day. “I’ve done it before.”
“I thank you for the tribute on his behalf,” said Bjarnason. “Thorkell was a good man. But much as it pains me to say it, the loss of one good Norseman doesn’t justify a massacre.”
Marcellinus held the man’s gaze for several moments, then turned and poured wine and water for them both. If Bjarnason had intended to kill him, he’d be dead already. “I’m surprised no one told me you’d returned to camp.”
“I haven’t. Leastways, not officially.” He grinned. “A poor scout I’d be if I couldn’t find a path through a castra unseen.”
“Such undue stealthiness could get you killed.”
“Perhaps. But I’m no use to you here. If I’m to be of service, I need to be out feeling the lay of the land. Learning to think as the redskins do.”
Marcellinus eyed him. “This territory appeals? Perhaps you’re thinking you’ve served Roma long enough?”
“The scenery’s to my taste, I’ll admit. I sojourned in Vinlandia awhile; did you know? And Graenlandia before that. I like the spaces empty and the skies big.”
“Then why are you here in my tent?”
“Because I still work for you, Praetor. I wouldn’t want you to imagine I’d deserted. And to advise you.” Marcellinus raised his eyebrows. “To tell you my impressions, rather,” the Norseman amended quickly.
“You have the floor,” Marcellinus said ironically, and sat in his chair.
Bjarnason sipped his wine. He must have grown unused to it during his weeks in the woods; it was the first time Marcellinus had seen a Viking sip anything. “Very well, then. They’re a powerful people, the Iroqua. Warriors the like of which I’ve not seen before in Europa or beyond. Bloodier than we Norse. We generally leave people alive, but they kill for sport. I’m keeping my wits about me, I don’t mind telling you. I don’t sleep much.”
“And these are the people I shouldn’t massacre?”
“Nay,” said Bjarnason. “I don’t give a hoot about the Iroqua. Vile folk, but you’ll be out of their territory in a few more days, anyway. The people you shouldn’t kill are the next lot, the Cahokiani. Great builders, they are: longhouses, thatched roofs. Not the equals of the Norse great halls, but they could be with a tad more practice. And they build mounds of earth, too, wide and tall. And riverine harbors and irrigation canals. They’re like no people you’ve seen yet.”
“Do they have gold?” Marcellinus asked automatically, and almost laughed at himself for the question.
The Norseman shook his head. “We’ll not make our fortunes there. Furs and pretty shells. Aside from that it’s mostly stone and bone, wood and feathers. Especially feathers. For they’re fliers as well as runners and swimmers, you see.”
“We saw what their wings could do in Appalachia. It’s a fancy trick, but not one that leaves much of a dent on Roman steel.”
“You’ve not seen the best of what they can throw into the air,” said Bjarnason. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”
“But we can beat them,” Marcellinus said, and it wasn’t a question.
“Oh, aye, handily, should you choose to. But maybe you should consider the advantages of trade over pillage.” Bjarnason smiled ruefully. “And when a Norseman says that, you should probably listen.”
“We don’t need any shells. How much farther, Bjarnason?”
“To the city of mounds? As the crow flies and the legion marches? Six weeks.” The Norseman waggled his hand to show that his estimate was rough.
“Six?” Marcellinus said, appalled.
As the year wore on, Marcellinus was becoming uncomfortably aware of just how long this march was taking. He worked the dates in his head. The Ides of Julius had just passed. Six weeks further would take them well past the limit of how far west they could travel and still have any hope of making it back to the Chesapica before winter closed in. For a moment, his heart already felt the chill.
The mounted Norse scouts had made it to the city of mounds and back again in a couple of months. It had always been obvious that the Legion would take much longer. No one had expected it to take this long.
“You’re worried about supplies?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t be. They have better corn than you’ve seen so far, and soon ready for the harvest.”
Marcellinus looked wry. “Enough to feed the 33rd over a winter?”
“Enough to feed a city,” Bjarnason assured him. “Take the city and you take the food, too.”
He put the wine cup down and stretched. “I haven’t been into that city, mind. Can’t even get close. There’s no cover in the last stages, and I’ll not get far trying to disguise myself as one of them. But ten thousand people’s my guess.”
“If you’re wrong—” Marcellinus caught himself.
On their arrival at the Chesapica the weather had been surprisingly blustery and fierce for the latitude. If Marcellinus had to build a fortress and overwinter the 33rd out here in the desolate backcountry of Nova Hesperia, he would really have problems. The decimation of his troops from starvation and infighting would make their losses at the hands of the natives look paltry. Marcellinus could hardly expect the locals to feed his legion out of the goodness of their hearts.
Of course, if he had to turn around and slink back to the Chesapica without having found gold or achieved substantial military success conquering new territory for the Imperium, Marcellinus would have wasted the year. Hadrianus would not view that favorably.
He really had no choice. None at all.
“I’m not wrong,” the scout said.
Hating himself, Marcellinus clutched at a further straw. “If you’ve not been in, how can you be sure there’s no gold?”
“I suppose they might have a bit, if it was well hidden.” The Norseman leaned forward. “But these people have more than that, Praetor. They know this land, and they know the air above it. The air! Gods’ sakes! And they don’t think the way we do. I can’t really explain it, because I only speak a few words of their lingo. But there are virtues to them. There are virtues.
“You’ve seen it yourself, I know; I heard you trying to persuade your tribune back there by Thorkell’s corpse. The Cahokiani husband the land even more so than the Iroqua; they live almost inside the land. And that’s how they fly, you know. They’ve tamed the air because they have an understanding of it that we lack.”
Marcellinus drained his cup. “Tell me something I can use, Isleifur Bjarnason.”
“You’ve only seen the small wings,” said the Viking. “Wait till you see the larger. In their language, they call them Thunderbirds. If the little birds are like sparrows, the Thunderbirds are like … well, eagles.”
“Eagles.”
“Flying through the air, quick as ballista bolts.”
Larger wings. Marcellinus’s pulse quickened, but he remained resolute. “The bigger they are, the larger the hole they’ll make in the ground when we shoot them down. They’re a gimmick. There’s little strategic value to them.”
“Well,” said the Norseman. “That may be so, and it may be not.”
“You do realize that I should arrest you?” Marcellinus said bluntly. “Fraternizing with the enemy, pleading their case with me, breaking in here by night.”
Bjarnason grinned. “I’m at my Praetor’s disposal.”
“Yes, till you turn renegade on me. I haven’t forgotten what good pirates you people make.”
Bjarnason looked pained. “Damn it, now … sir. That’s the Danes. The Danes were never anything but trouble, just like the Britons. I’m a Geat, one of the true Scands. We’re just like you, always were.”
