The Fire Islands

by Gilbert M. Stack

  “If he really threatened you!” Tribune Gaius snapped.

  Marcus whirled on him, but an elderly voice interrupted before he could defend himself. “No, we are not going to go there.”

  All four men turned respectfully toward the voice of Praetor Castor, the commander of the legion holding the Fire Islands, and saluted by pressing their clenched fists to their hearts.

  Castor was an old man with sallow skin who’d suffered three bouts of fever since being posted to this out of the way command three years ago. He was not, in Marcus’ opinion, deserving of his position for he had little interest in the men under his command spending all of his attention on his beautiful young wife who had accompanied him from Aquila. Yet he was the supreme authority in Mokupani with the power of life and death over its residents and the men under his command.

  “We are not going to question the honor of my best Lesser Tribune,” Praetor Castor stated with only a slight tremor remaining from his latest illness to disturb the firmness of his voice. “Your hand won all the prizes at the games two months ago—second year in a row. That is quite a feat and I won’t have anyone making aspersions on your character.”

  This show of support surprised Marcus. It had always been his impression that the lax Praetor found his insistence on strict discipline and following regulations as irritating as the others did. He’d certainly done nothing to encourage the other tribunes to adopt Marcus’ practices.

  He saluted the Praetor a second time. “Thank you, Sir. My men work hard to maintain their fitness.”

  “That is part of the problem here,” Praetor Castor acknowledged. “Your men work harder and stay fitter than everyone else’s.” Frowns covered the room, even the face of Tribune Festus Migellus, whom one might have expected to take some pride in these apparent words of praise directed at one of his officers. “It builds jealousy,” the Praetor continued, although whether or not he was aware of the frowns was unclear. “And it’s hard on the men—especially in this oppressive fever-ridden heat which makes the regular standards of our beloved home, Aquila, impossible to maintain in these islands.”

  The frowns relaxed as Marcus fought to keep one from forming on his own face. Wasn’t his own hand proof that the traditional standard was possible even here on the edge of the world?

  The Praetor turned suddenly on his Great Tribune. “Xanthus, this Albus must be crucified the moment he’s recovered enough to make a lesson for the other legionnaires. It is one thing to recognize that this accursed climate mandates a certain relaxation of fighting fitness—it’s not like these Kanakan scum could ever truly threaten us anyway. But threatening a superior officer can never be tolerated. If Albus dies before he’s well enough to be executed, then choose one of the others to be crucified in his place.”

  Frowns returned to the faces of Xanthus and Gaius making Marcus wonder if perhaps they were receiving a cut of Albus’ graft. He would put nothing past the disgraceful fools.

  “Only one, Sir?” Xanthus asked.

  “I think so,” Castor told him. “I’m in a good mood today. My wife found a decorative hairpin I gave to her that we thought one of the servants must have stolen. It is fortunate, wouldn’t you say, Marcus?”

  “Absolutely, Praetor,” Marcus agreed, hoping that his personal discipline was sufficient to keep any surprise off his face. He was going to have to have a talk with young Janus. While he had known that the object of the young officer’s fancy was a married woman, it had never occurred to him that it might be the wife of the head of the legion.

  “Besides,” Castor continued. “executing five healthy men would truly be a waste. We can’t seem to keep more than half the legion on its feet with all these damn fevers always laying waste to the land.” He paused to study Marcus again. “Except for your hand, Marcus. Your men always seem to be healthy. Why is that, do you think?”

  Marcus shrugged. There was no way that he was going to tell the Praetor that he had violated the longstanding decree against using native doctors to keep his men physicked against the climate. That decree had come during the first days of conquest when the native doctors had poisoned many Aquilans in the fight against the invaders. But in the decades that followed, the social conditions had changed. And if the Aquilans still were not loved, Marcus had gambled that enough natives depended on their new rulers for their living to permit a judicious use of local knowledge to prevent illness. His well-paid witchdoctor, Akela, served as head cook for the hand and wove her magics into the food to keep the men on their feet and ready for action.

  “It must be our strong bodies and pure hearts,” Marcus lied.

  “Pure hearts,” Castor repeated, drawing out the last word as if it were worthy of great consideration. “The heart does lead us to greatness, but beware, my friend, it can also lead to terrible trouble.”

  Marcus began to wonder if perhaps the Praetor suspected what had really happened to his wife’s hairpin.

  Castor placed a hand on Marcus’ shoulder. “It’s good your men are healthy. I’m going to need them very soon.” He lifted his head to address the others. “I’m going to need all of you very soon, but Marcus here—his hand is going to play a special role in the coming days.”

  He lowered his voice slightly. “This is not to go any further for now, but rumor has it that this Kekipi has made the mistake of coming to this island with his seditious chatter. And if the rumor is true, that means the legion will soon be able to silence him forever.”

  Chapter Three

  He Is of the Ancient Line of Mokupani’s Darkest Kings

  The Aquilan castrum had sprawled out of a temporary structure the armies of the Republic built every night at the end of a day’s march in enemy territory. It was in a sad state of repair—as were just about all the structures in Mokupani. When Marcus had arrived, it was common place for his hand’s barracks to collapse during serious storms—a situation he had decisively resolved. Now his hand’s section of the castrum was by far the most clean, efficient and sturdy of all the legion. In other words, it conformed precisely to regulations.

  He acknowledged the salutes of his men with a curt nod of the head and went straight to the company mess. There in the back by the kitchen fires he found his elderly witchdoctor, Akela, supervising the production of the evening meal, as she always did. She was a wrinkled old thing with the light brown skin of her race and starkly white hair pulled back behind her in long, impressive braids.

  “Makuahine Akela,” Marcus greeted her, using the respectful term, mother, as he always did. “If we ran the legions as efficiently as you do this kitchen all the world would have fallen to Aquila’s armies.”

  Akela accepted Marcus’ complement as her due. “I hear you had a busy afternoon, Tribune. Is your belly so empty you cannot wait for the evening meal? If so, I will conjure something special, just for you.”

  “You are too good to me, Makuahine,” Marcus assured her even as his stomach rumbled over his missed lunch, “but I did not come to wheedle treats from you, but instead to show my esteem.”

  He held up one of the broaches he had bought at the pawn shop that afternoon. It was the most beautiful of the pieces he had seen, featuring a small piece of ivory exquisitely carved in the image of a crane, a symbol of good fortune in Mokupani.

  “A royal gift,” Akela praised him.

  Marcus suppressed the urge to cringe. Aquila had gotten rid of its kings centuries ago, and the old woman’s honest approval could easily be termed an insult if others had heard it. “I am pleased that you like it,” Marcus told her.

  He watched with approval as the witchdoctor fastened the broach to her light dress.

  “I think,” she teased, “that your Nani will not like you giving this to me.”

  “A man can always get another mistress,” Marcus informed her, fully aware that at least one of the native Kanaka working in the kitchen would be happy to carry the words to Nani. “But unfortunately, there is only one Makuahine Akela.”

  The o
ld woman laughed. “You show great wisdom for one of so few years, Tribune. Now I tell you something to prove you are right to value me. The word in the castrum is that your legion will march soon on one I refuse to name.”

  This time, Marcus did cringe. How could the coming orders be common gossip before the officers had received them?

  “Beware this man, Tribune, for he is of the ancient line of Mokupani’s darkest kings. Beware him—especially when the sun ceases to shine during the day.”

  Marcus recovered from his slight loss of composure and bowed his thanks, always careful to show far more respect for the woman than her current station merited. Her physicks kept his men healthy and her knowledge of Mokupani and its people was extensive. Yet why did she feel the need to couch her wisdom in riddles. Eclipses had been known and predicted in Aquila for many centuries. Sol Invictus might permit the sun to disappear from the sky from time to time but there was nothing truly mysterious about the event.

  “Thank you, Makuahine, I will hold your words close to my heart.”

  “See you do!” Akela warned him, “for there’s something about you I see when I close my eyes—something that could turn over this upside down world and set it right again. But your flame is candle-dim and He I Do Not Name will snuff it out if you let him.”

  Again the riddles that made the old woman so enchanting to speak with. “You turn my head, Makuahine,” Marcus laughed. “If you were only ten years younger my Nani really would have something to fear.”

  “Only ten?” she asked, arching her eyebrow with mock surprise. “If I had known you like women your great-grandmother’s age I would have made myself look pleasant for you. Alas, the chance has passed us by. Go make pillow talk with your Nani, but don’t forget what I said.”

  Marcus laughed again and left her, making his way out of the company mess and across the street to where his officer’s hut sat. The other tribunes from lesser to greater broke with regulations to be near the Praetor’s stately home, but Marcus believed in staying close enough that the men knew you were one of them in the ways that mattered most.

  As he entered his home, his adjutant, Calidus Vulpes, opened the door for him as he almost always did. Technically a legionnaire of the red band, the second line of soldiers in the fighting hand, Calidus was a seasoned man in the prime of his life as Marcus, himself, would be if he were not in overall command of the hand. But far more valuable than his fighting skills was the man’s ability to worm anything—be it information or equipment—out of the people around him. “Welcome home, Tribune, wine is on the table and Nani is sulking in your room. She has heard you gave a worthy gift to Makuahine Akela and wants to make certain you are appropriately punished for passing her by with this favor.”

  “Already?” Marcus asked him.

  “She has her admirers everywhere, Tribune,” Calidus reminded him. “I would not be surprised if one of them hadn’t scampered off to tell her the news before you finished offering the present.”

  Marcus shook his head in amazement. He had expected Nani to pout and sulk, but had hoped she would not learn of the gift until tomorrow morning.

  He shrugged and produced the least of the ornaments he had purchased, a small stud earring produced from native pearl. “Well if she’s going to act this way, let’s make her really angry. I thought you might like to have this trinket the next time you’re trying to impress a woman.”

  Calidus accepted the earring and opened the door again to examine it in the clean sunlight. “Are you certain, Tribune? This is a very fine pearl. It’s quite an extraordinary gift.”

  Marcus was going to have to learn to better evaluate the worth of jewelry, but for now: “Of course, I’m certain. You’re an invaluable man, Calidus.”

  The adjutant made the earring disappear into his clothes. “Well then, you have my sincerest thanks, Tribune. I assure you I will find the perfect use for the bauble. Is the rumor we are marching out to squash this rebellion true?”

  “What is your source on that rumor?” Marcus asked.

  Calidus never told the identity of his informants, but was always willing to share the level of confidence with which his information should be valued. “The Praetor’s headquarters around lunchtime,” he said.

  That reminded Marcus that he had been standing waiting for Great Tribune Xanthus Aurelius when he should have been eating the noon meal. Not that it truly mattered. Legionnaires often missed meals in the field. He was not going to give his superiors the satisfaction of complaining over skipping this one. “At least it was a highly placed source,” he told Calidus. It troubled him how little attention the Praetor paid to operational security.

  “Forgive me, Tribune, if I gave you that impression,” the adjutant said. “It is common gossip in the headquarters. The Praetor had an argument—a very loud argument—with his wife and when he emerged from their bedroom he demanded a scribe draw up orders for an officers’ meeting tomorrow morning. Then he muttered something about wiping out all of his enemies at the same time and stormed off to find the legion’s magus.”

  “I…see,” Marcus observed. He really didn’t like the sound of that at all. Janus’ little affair had already caused way too much trouble and it spoke very poorly of the young man. Every officer ought to know that his superiors’ wives were off limits.

  Rather than let Calidus see how much his news truly troubled him, Marcus picked up the two silver cups of wine and went to find Nani in his bedroom. She had wrecked the place in her anger, throwing his spare uniforms onto the floor and soiling them with things he didn’t want to think about. It was fortunate that he was Spartan in his belongings because she’d tossed his shield and pilum around and generally messed up his parchments as well—not that he kept anything important out of the locked box which she did not have access to.

  He shook his head sadly. “And here I was looking forward to a night of sweaty love and you’re going to have to waste the hours cleaning up this mess and washing my uniforms.”

  Nani threw herself at him, wielding her fingernails like claws. “You gave it to that old hag? You gave her an ivory pin when I wear nothing but rags?”

  Her clothing was, in fact, the most significant expense in Marcus’ budget—which seemed a shame as she rarely wore any when they were together. Add to that the thin silver bracelets, the beautiful shell necklaces, and the rings that adorned each of her fingers and keeping Nani had cost enough to break a lesser man. But beautiful women—and Nani certainly was that—loved equally beautiful things and a man who would keep a mistress like this light brown beauty had to expect it to cost him dearly.

  Marcus pulled the final piece of jewelry from his pocket—a delicate silver necklace with an Aquilan Eagle dangling from its length. “I would hardly call this rags, but if you think it’s beneath you…” He began to return the necklace to his pocket when Nani snatched it from him, amazing him once again with the speed with which she could move her hands.

  “It is gorgeous,” she marveled as she moved to examine it by the window. “See the sunlight sparkle off its surface?”

  Marcus moved beside her and pulled her against his chest. “No, you are gorgeous. This is merely a pale reflection of your beauty.”

  “All right,” she conceded, “I forgive you. But you should have given me both the necklace and the pin.”

  “And make others think you need such trinkets to attract a man’s eye? Never.”

  He took the necklace from her, slid the thin chain around her neck, and waited while she lifted her braids so he could fasten the clasp behind her. When he finished, the little image of the eagle nestled right at the top of her bountiful cleavage. “You see? This will attract men’s eyes to one of your many physical charms. The broach I gave to Makuahine Akela would only pull men’s eyes away again.”

  “I do not like her,” Nani told him for what was probably the ten-thousandth time. “If you truly loved me, you would get rid of her. I have a cousin who could run your kitchen far better.”

/>   Marcus declined to observe that he would get rid of Nani before he ever let Makuahine Akela go. Nani brought him much personal pleasure, but there were many women among the Kanaka who could do that. Akela kept him and his men healthy and in fighting form and he knew no one else he would trust with such an important responsibility.

  Rather than point any of this out, he pulled his mistress down onto the bed and began to play with her. After a little while she said, “I hear you’re going to be leaving me again.”

  “Hmmm?”

  “You’re going back in the field!” she accused.

  “Oh, I’ve heard those rumors too, but there are no orders yet. Without orders, nothing happens. You should know that by now.”

  She rolled her eyes at him. “You’re going to try and kill Kekipi,” she accused.

  Marcus never talked about legion business with Nani or anyone not in the legion. It was a firm rule which the rest of the legion would do well to follow. “I heard that name in town today. An old man swore that Kekipi would kill us all.” He made the statement a joke and watched Nani closely as he fished for more information.

  “You should be wary. Kekipi is very dangerous,” she warned him. “He’s one of the great witchdoctors of old born again.”

  “He’d have to be,” Marcus laughed. “We cut the old ones into teeny tiny pieces.”

  She stuck her finger in his face. “You not make jokes about this. He is a real witchdoctor of old. He says he’ll drive all you Aquilan back into the sea you came from.”

  Nani looked so serious that Marcus forced himself to stop laughing. “That will never happen. If Kekipi is real and comes against this castrum we will break him again. Remember, it was the Rule of Twenty, not the Rule of One. Even if he is one of the old rulers returned, he won’t be a serious problem.”

  “There were three legions then,” Nani protested. “Three legions that all fought like you—not these lazy…” Nani had an excellent grasp of the Aquilan tongue, but evidently her mastery failed her for her face scrunched up and she spat out a word in Kanakan. “…walohia.”