The Fire Islands

by Gilbert M. Stack

  Like his mistress, Marcus had always worked hard at the native tongues, figuring that at some point his ability to understand the locals might mean life or death for the men under his command, but this was a word he couldn’t quite place. “What does that mean? Weak? Unmanly?”

  Nani struggled hard to find a word that fully embodied what she was trying to say. Finally, she threw her hands up and said, “They are pathetic!”

  Marcus agreed with her. The leadership had allowed the state of readiness among the legion to fall to lows that would justify decimation in the days when only land-owning farmers could qualify for service. That punishment hadn’t been used in twenty years, but if there was ever a legion that justified the killing of every tenth man to motivate the others to return to the expected standard, it was Praetor Castor’s force in Mokupani. But he couldn’t admit that to his mistress. “They’ll do well enough if the need ever arises.”

  Nani just shook her head. “No, only you can stand against Kekipi.” She eyed him with disturbing calculation before smiling widely and throwing her arms around him. “Only you can kill the old hewa ke kahuna reborn. And when you kill him, you will be promoted and win much treasure which you can give to me.”

  Her kisses discouraged Marcus from trying to answer.

  Chapter Four

  This Really Is My Area of Expertise

  Marcus strode into the officers meeting alongside his immediate superior Festus Migellus and the other two Lesser Tribunes under Festus’ command, Zephirus and Merinus. None of the three were worth a bucket of spit in Marcus’ opinion. They had taken to the indolent life of Mokupani with relish and made it obvious that they found the regulation training upon which the legions had been built both tedious and unnecessary. Now that their legionnaires might be called upon to do their jobs, Marcus had no confidence that they would prove up to the task. But what really worried him was that none of the three evidenced the slightest worry over this—as if they believed that the tame natives of the town and this main island represented all of the Kanaka.

  Marcus knew differently. Roughly one thousand separate pieces of land made up the Fire Islands and Aquila’s legions had never stepped foot on more than a couple hundred of them. They had invaded Mokupani because it was the largest island in the chain, the home of the Rule of Twenty and the site of the principle gold mine. They’d also crushed resistance on the next four largest islands and set up permanent camps on them. Praetor Castor had divided his only full phalanx among the four so that each held a full cohort—roughly three hundred men on parchment. He’d kept his other phalanx—this one only three cohorts strong—with him on Mokupani and used the constant high levels of sickness among the men to justify not aggressively patrolling the unoccupied islands. As long as they regularly sent their shipments of pearls, sugar and other forms of tribute, he did not much bother them. This meant that roughly nine hundred and ninety-five islands—most of them admittedly uninhabited—never saw the Aquila legions unless they were substantially late in their tribute payments. The last time that had happened was ten years ago—before Marcus had arrived—and it had apparently been a slaughter that caused no more sweat on a legionnaire’s brow than the ever-present heat usually did.

  So now there was potentially the largest uprising in twenty years or possibly since Aquila first conquered this province and the legion didn’t appear to know it wasn’t ready.

  Marcus held his misgivings tight as they filed past the headquarters and into the Praetor’s garden which caught the light breeze from the sea. They were the last group of officers to arrive. The others were under the pavilion circling a table where a map had been stretched out and weighted down with rocks. They didn’t even stand at attention and Marcus’s misgivings grew ever stronger as they approached.

  “Good, you’re here,” the Praetor greeted them. He made no notice of the fact that they were technically late because Festus had discovered that he had dripped egg yolk on his chest during breakfast and had to change his uniform.

  Marcus was wearing yesterday’s uniform which Calidus, Sol Invictus bless him, had cleaned for him over night. The other uniforms would have to be replaced. Nani had poured ink on them and those stains weren’t going to come out again. It really would be time to find a new mistress if she only weren’t so damnably beautiful.

  The four officers saluted in unison at the Praetor’s greeting. It wasn’t parade-ground crisp, Marcus noted critically, but it was a passable salute. “My apologies if we are late, Praetor,” Festus said. “I’m—”

  “Nonsense!” the Praetor cut him off. “We’re just ready to get started and your cohort is going to play the key role in this operation.

  He gestured for them to join the others around the table. Great Tribune Xanthus Aurellius stood to the left of the Praetor and Master Magus Alena Adrastus stood to his right. Magus was the only role within the legion that a woman could officially fill. Magical power knew no gender and Aquila took it where it found it. At full strength every cohort in the legion would have its own magus but no one really wanted to serve in the Fire Islands and the Senate had not seen fit to fill those positions as they had come vacant. Alena was the only magus in the legion and Marcus feared that her title master was more courtesy then reality. She wore a sash with only three stars—a middling level of expertise.

  Also at the table were Festus’ peers, the other two tribunes, but only four of the other lesser tribunes were present—the fevers did not discriminate by rank.

  “Our spies tell me that this new rebel dreamer, Kekipi, came to the island of Mokupani twelve days ago with perhaps three hundred primitives from the outer islands.”

  All eyes turned toward the Master Magus. Farseeing was a basic talent of the magi of the legions of Aquila although it was far from a foolproof talent.

  “I have not seen Kekipi,” Alena informed them. “Or if I have seen him, I did not recognize him as such. But canoes from the outer islands have been streaming toward Mokupani for many days now. If Kekipi came with three hundred men, he has many more than that now.”

  Praetor Castor frowned. “Well three hundred or six hundred, it’s not going to make that much difference.”

  “Six thousand wouldn’t make that much difference,” Festus joked. “We’re a legion of Aquila. No native force no matter how strong can stand up to us.”

  Grunts of approval reverberated around the room and the Praetor regained his smile. “I’m glad you feel that way, Festus, because I have a special role for your cohort to play in the coming action—you and especially the prize winning hand of Lesser Tribune Marcus Venandus. What do you say to that, Marcus?”

  Marcus definitely didn’t like the sound of that, but he let no indication of his concern touch his features. The Praetor was planning something Marcus wasn’t going to like and revenge upon Janus would appear to be a significant part of the reason. “My men are eager to fight. Just tell us what you want us to accomplish.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Castor told him. “Now gather around men. As you can see on the map, we believe that Kekipi is gathering his forces—such as they are—here at the base of Keahi where the legions crushed the Rule of Twenty forty years ago.”

  He pointed at a place on the map that every graduate of the lycee knew by heart. It was called the Iwi Iwilei by the natives—the Bone Yard. It was the site of a thousand human sacrifices and more than a few domestic battles before Aquila came and added thousands of more dead to the landscape.

  A feeling of dread settled heavily on Marcus’ shoulders and he could see his concern reflected in many of the faces around him. “The land is not open in the Bone Yard,” he reminded everyone. There are three main arroyos approaching the spot with numerous side chasms which let the enemy circle around behind to cut off and box in an attacking force. Or if the Kanaka are feeling less aggressive it will let them run away before we can force them to battle.”

  “Ah, our prize winner shows us there’s more to him than simple brawn,” the Praetor
said in what even the most objective viewer would have to consider a mocking tone. “But I think you will all agree that I have considered this problem in my plans.”

  He indicated the map again. “There are three major arroyo and I have three cohorts available for the battle.” Tribunes Gaius and Rogellius will take the side arroyos and Tribune Festus will lead his hands down the center one. You will use your hands as need be to block any major passages which might let the natives get behind your cohorts and escape our trap while Lesser Tribune Marcus pushes hard to the so-called Killing Basin which lays between the openings of the arroyos and the cave network which leads deep into the heart of Keahi where we believe the primitive bastards are hiding.”

  Marcus’ concern grew. The Killing Basin was so named because when the legions who had first enacted the Praetor’s plan arrived there, they had found a thousand Kanaka with spears and stones on the mountainside above the Killing Basin ready to rain death upon the Aquilans while their army of the undead crashed against the legions’ shields as relentlessly as ocean waves breaking upon Mokupani’s beaches. Those legions had had twelve thousand men bolstered by native auxiliaries—not significantly less than the nine hundred which should technically be at Praetor Castor’s command. He hadn’t even called in his other phalanx from the surrounding islands. Even if Kekipi had no undead masses at his command, this could well turn into the wrong kind of blood bath.

  “Now comes the key part of my plan,” the Praetor crowed. “Having moved quickly enough to surprise this Kekipi, Lesser Tribune Marcus will push his cohort across the Killing Basin—even if the support from the other cohorts and hands has not reached him yet. He will cross the Killing Basin and position himself at the central mouth of the tunnels to hold against any attempt by Kekipi to swarm his forces out of hiding within the tunnels to try and trap our men in the arroyos.”

  This plan was so clearly terrible that even men who hated Marcus looked askance. “Forgive me, Praetor,” a lesser tribune named Julian Maximus said, “but if we don’t surprise Kekipi, or even if we do surprise him but the other cohorts are seriously delayed in the arroyos, Lesser Tribune Marcus and his men will be overwhelmed by the enemy.”

  “Surely you’re not suggesting that our prize-winning hand is not a match for a few Kanakan rebels?” the Praetor asked.

  “Sir, you have said that there are hundreds of rebels with Kekipi,” the Lesser Tribune continued to press his point. “And the Master Magus has implied that there might be thousands—”

  “I—I didn’t actually say thousands,” the woman stammered.

  “And none of this takes into account what will happen if this rebel actually can raise an army of the dead. I’ve heard men howling in the streets about it and—”

  “That’s enough!” the Praetor snapped. “I will not have that sort of talk sapping the morale of the men.”

  “They’ve already heard the talk,” Julian insisted. “And this rumor that Kekipi is actually one of the Rule of Twenty reborn.”

  Marcus had tried to look up the names of the Twenty in his copy of the report on the original battle, but it was among the works that Nani had destroyed in her fit of jealousy the night before.

  “You think—” the Praetor yelled.

  “If I may, Praetor,” the Magus interrupted him. “This really is my area of expertise, you know.”

  Castor glowered at the woman but gestured with his hand for her to continue.

  “Kekipi is actually the name of one of the late replacements of the Council of Twenty—named to the position after the battle of Keahi when the original Council was destroyed. He was a young man still early in his training and was reportedly killed in battle half a year later in a skirmish on one of the lesser islands. So he was never one of the most powerful witchdoctors, or kahuna, as the locals call them. Logic suggests that this present Kekipi is just a man who happens to have the same name. I mean, why would anyone try and raise a relatively weak kahuna when they could have gone after one of the original Rule of Twenty?”

  Unless, Marcus thought, the original Kekipi did not die as reported and he’s been biding his time for the last forty years preparing for a second chance to come after us.

  “So you see,” the Praetor resumed his briefing, “there is nothing to these rumors and we should all,” he glared hard at Julian, “take whatever means are necessary to squelch these fanciful stories among the men.”

  Julian did not have the sense to forgo pressing his point. “And these claims that Kekipi will raise a new army of the dead?”

  The Master Magus shook her head as if she could not believe that anyone could take such a notion seriously. “That really isn’t possible, Lesser Tribune. The days of the great witchdoctors are past. This pretender might be able to raise one or two skeletal warriors to impress his followers, but an army? That’s the stuff of children’s nightmares—not reality.”

  “But even if Kekipi is more capable than our esteemed Master Magus believes he can possibly be,” the Praetor added, “my plan accounts for that possibility. Just as our illustrious predecessors did, we will commence our attack in the morning and in a worst case scenario be in position before the caves by high noon, or perhaps a little later.”

  “All accounts agree,” the Master Magus picked up her report, “that the undead armies of the Kakana were weaker under direct sunlight. They shattered more readily and were unable to reassemble themselves. So if Kekipi has raised a handful of walking skeletons to impress his followers, they will be easily handled by you legionnaires.”

  Rather more perspiration had broken out on the brow of Tribune Festus than the fine sheet of sweat that marked the other men. He lifted a hand now to catch the attention of the Magus. “Since it seems quite likely under the Praetor’s ingenious plan that my first hand will be facing any undead in the caves beneath the mountain, would you remind us all how to defeat a skeleton that is shielded from the sun?”

  Rather ominously, Praetor Castor frowned at the question, but the Magus answered without noticing her superior’s response. “Yes, of course, it’s quite simple, really. You have to break the skull. Otherwise, the animating spirit will continue to form a new body from the pieces of bones that surround it.”

  She said this as if it were the simplest task in the world, but most of the lesser tribunes groaned and Julian asked, “Do you have any idea how hard it is to truly cleave a skull?”

  “That’s not going to be a serious problem,” the Praetor informed them. “My legion is up to breaking a couple of skeletons. Now if there are no more questions—”

  Marcus interrupted him with a raised hand. He had been thinking hard regarding Makuahine Akela’s warning and this might be his only chance to add some sanity to this plan. “If I might, Praetor, seeing as this plan might hinge upon continued direct sunlight, might I ask if we can expect any eclipses or major storms?” There was no point in asking about minor storms. The islands suffered one or two of them a day, although they rarely lasted for very long.

  “I am a professional,” Master Magus Alena answered somewhat haughtily. “When Praetor Castor brought me in on his plans, the first thing I did was calculate the next eclipse and the short term weather. We will not have the first for more than three months and the seasonal storms are still more than six weeks away.”

  Marcus nodded, but found he did not feel particularly comforted by the woman’s words.

  “If there are no further interruptions?” the Praetor asked. “Good! Lesser Tribunes may go see about readying their hands for an inland march. We leave tomorrow at dawn. Tribunes, Xanthus, I’d like a further word with the four of you.”

  Chapter Five

  You Really Should Have Stayed Away from His Wife

  “Tribune Marcus! Wait up!”

  Marcus turned to find Lesser Tribune Julian Maximus walking toward him with unusual haste for the typical officer in this Mokupani heat. Merinus and Zephirus had made a point of not walking with Marcus so he was alone when Julian reached
him.

  “I wanted to know what you think of the—no, that might sound like I’m trying to catch you out,” Julian said as he ran an arm across his forehead to wipe away the sweat. “So let me tell you what I think. This plan is a disaster and I can’t believe that even our illustrious Praetor thinks it will accomplish anything positive—with the possible exception of getting his lead hand killed and with it the man who is sleeping with his wife.”

  Marcus frowned. He didn’t like gossip but he recognized that politics was an important part of an officer’s responsibilities and Julian had just stuck his neck out in the briefing trying to diplomatically point out the obvious stupidity of this plan.

  “Similar thoughts had occurred to me and if Kekipi really is on Mokupani with a large following, this disaster-in-the-making could spiral out of control and let him catch the other hands in isolation. He didn’t even call the other cohorts home to bolster our numbers. Which reminds me, how many of your men do you expect to march out tomorrow?”

  Julian considered the question. “We’re well under our full muster—only seventy-seven active, although the roll officially says we have eighty-five. How many can you march?”

  “We have eighty-eight,” Marcus told him, “both in reality and on the roll.”

  It was a common practice for officers to inflate the number of men they carried so that their monthly pay could fill more deserving pockets. Marcus didn’t participate in this scam in part because he had attracted such ill will from so many of his poorly motivated superiors that he feared to provide them with such easy means to reprimand him.

  “And how many of them are able to march?” Julian asked again.