The Fire Islands

by Gilbert M. Stack

  “Let’s get moving!”

  Epilogue

  This Is Politics

  “Attention!” Severus shouted and twelve hundred mostly light-brown legionnaires stiffened their spines in unison and stood rigidly in their ranks on either side of the road leading up from the harbor to the partially rebuilt town of Maleko. Behind them, and farther up the road, a couple thousand of the surviving residents had gathered to welcome the men who would make certain the Rule of Twenty never threatened them again.

  Marcus stepped in front of his new troops to face the party disembarking from the Aquilan ship moored at the docks. It had been just under six months since he had led his battered men out of the depths of Keahi to find that the undead armies had killed just about every other legionnaire on the island. What was more, it had quickly become apparent that the cohorts Praetor Castor had scattered around the other major islands had been shattered as well—not by skeletons this time, but by hordes of native Kanakan warriors who had used the black smoke vomiting forth from the volcano as their signal to begin their genocidal attacks. In one torturous afternoon, the Aquilan presence in Mokupani and the surrounding islands had been all but wiped out.

  The lone survivor of all the tribunes, Marcus had refused to retreat to Aquila, taking it on himself to raise a new legion from native sources. With the tacit moral support of respected Kanaka like Makuahine Akela, Marcus and the survivors of his hand had recruited and trained an army strong and disciplined enough to repel three invasions of Mokupani from the other islands.

  He was proud of his new men and if the long awaited relief from Aquila had not arrived today he would have seen no reason to wait to begin retaking the other islands from the dead Kekipi’s allies.

  This response from Aquila was late in coming, but there were at least one hundred ships in the harbor, which showed that they had taken his reports of the devastation seriously. If only they had sent a competent officer to take command and not the usual politically-connected riffraff that had been stationed in Mokupani for the last decade.

  Ahead of him, the landing party organized itself and began marching toward the end of the dock. It was all senior officers—a praetor with his sash of thick bands of green, red and black, accompanied by two great tribunes and a plethora of magi, tribunes and lesser tribunes.

  Marcus started forward by himself to greet the officers, but stopped, a smile forming on his face when he finally recognized the features of his first commanding officer. His hand came up in salute, fist pressed against his heart, and he started forward again with more haste than was truly dignified. “Praetor Titus Virtuus, I had no idea you’d been promoted, Sir. It is truly good to see you again. It’s been far too long.”

  If anything, the older man’s frown intensified. “Lesser Tribune Marcus Venandus, why am I not surprised to find you in the middle of this mess in the Fire Islands?”

  Marcus did not slow until he stood four feet in front of his new commanding officer. “I’ve always had a gift for landing in the thick of things, Sir. I guess Sol Invictus just likes me.”

  Most of the officers flanking the Praetor frowned—all except for a wizened magus who eyed Marcus with obvious amusement.

  “Your report caused quite a bit of interest in the Senate,” Titus told him “Armies of the undead, hordes of rebel warriors, a legion crushed,” he paused and eyed the ranks of light brown men standing in perfect stillness on either side of the road ahead of him, “a new legion recruited from native sources.”

  “I’m pleased the Senate took my report seriously. There has been quite a bit of excitement out here on the edge of the world. Fortunately, a significant portion of the native population of Mokupani has chosen to side with Aquila rather than support a return to the dark days of the Rule of Twenty. Would you care to inspect your new cohorts, Praetor? Without them, you’d have one of those hordes of native rebels greeting you right now instead of the loyal grateful denizens of this island.”

  Titus returned his stare to Marcus who endured it without flinching. He had greatly respected this man when he was merely Great Tribune Titus Virtuus but recognized that he, himself, had been a mere Green Vigil, promoted to Red Vigil, while in his ranks. He was not in any way surprised by the lack of warmth and friendliness in his superior’s greeting. What was more, he was highly aware that his success here in salvaging the disaster in the Fire Islands would not be what had captured most of the Senate’s attention regarding Kekipi’s return. Praetor Castor had lost an entire legion save for Marcus’ twenty-three surviving men. There had many times been larger losses of life in Aquila’s storied history, but never had a single legion lost such a crushing percentage of its men. Titus had been sent out to set things right after a disaster and frankly, Marcus wasn’t certain that he would be pleased to discover that much of that recovery had already been accomplished.

  The new Praetor gestured toward Marcus’ men with his hand. “Lead the way, Lesser Tribune.”

  Marcus controlled a shiver of apprehension. This second use of his full title did not bode well for him. While it was common to use the full title with great tribunes, it was considered a courtesy to drop the lesser from the lesser tribune rank. The Praetor’s decision to remind him twice that he was beneath the rank of tribune suggested he did not think highly of Marcus Venandus.

  Anger quickly overpowered Marcus’ fear. He had personally stopped Kekipi from taking over the Fire Islands and ended an incredibly powerful threat to Aquila. Without Marcus, the devastating losses caused by the incompetent fool, Praetor Castor, would have been but a meager tithe on the price Aquila would have had to pay to recover these islands. And the casualties would not have been on land alone. Here in the harbor where Titus’ fleet now rested, the undead had surged from the murky bottom to pull sailors off their decks and break holes in the hulls of fleeing trade and fishing vessels. Marcus deserved the highest praise from his countrymen, not this suspicion with which Praetor Titus clearly viewed him. And that was before he considered the implications of the six chests of silver coins minted in the far off Qing Empire which he had discovered among Kekipi’s treasures.

  But Marcus reined in his anger. Gesturing with his hand, he pivoted and accompanied the Praetor past the crisp rows of his new legionnaires. “Recruitment efforts soared after the first invasion from the neighboring island of Pelikana. We’ve held the number tight at twelve hundred men—”

  “Twelve hundred?” Praetor Titus repeated as if this obvious implication of twelve hands standing in formation on the parade grounds had not occurred to him.

  “Yes, Sir, We’ve actually trained sixteen hundred and twelve men, but we’ve suffered casualties in the three attempts by the rebels to swarm Mokupani and drive Aquila into the sea.”

  “That’s a significant number of casualties,” the Praetor observed.

  “Yes, Sir,” Marcus agreed. “We were outnumbered at least two to one in each engagement and my men—your men now—are green despite the fact that I’ve been forced to temporarily place many in the red and black bands.”

  “Where did you get the armor?”

  “From our remaining stores and from the bodies of our dead comrades,” Marcus told him. The local Kanaka do not have the ability to make legion armor.”

  Titus stopped and closely examined one of Marcus’ legionnaires. He did not look pleased. “Where did you get that scar, man?”

  The legionnaire responded with a string of words in his own language.

  “Excuse me, Praetor,” Marcus interrupted, “but unfortunately, most of our new legionnaires do not have an extensive grasp of Aquilan yet. If you could direct your question to the Green Vigil, he can translate.”

  As Marcus stopped speaking, a native Kanaka stepped in front of the ranks and saluted. He did not bother to translate the question but answered on his own. “Praetor, Legionnaire Oke says that he was injured by a spear in the Battle of Ka Pupa Bay.”

  Titus turned his back on the Green Vigil and directed his next quest
ion at Marcus. “You’ve even promoted native officers?”

  Marcus suspected he was no longer concealing his irritation with his superior’s thinly veiled attacks. “Praetor, twenty-three legionnaires in addition to myself survived Kekipi’s attack. Twenty-three. That was, quite simply, not enough men to defend this island from additional attacks. So yes, I recruited native troops, trained them, and promoted native Kanaka to command them. What else could I do to hold this island?”

  “You should have kept them as local auxiliaries,” the ranking magus in Titus’ command party told him. He still looked amused by the whole affair and Marcus instinctively hated him.

  “If I had followed that advice, Master Magus, then right now you would be fighting the rebels to establish a beachhead.”

  The man’s brow furrowed but he didn’t lose the amused twist to his lips.

  Marcus paid no attention to this sign of the man’s unhappiness. “The rebels appear to come from the outer islands where Aquila has never been a notable presence. They are warriors born and bred. My troops were recruited from Mokupani where we have discouraged the natives’ warlike tendencies for the past forty years. If I had simply recruited native auxiliaries, we would have been easily defeated by the rebel tribes.”

  “An interesting problem, eh Darius?” Titus said. “It appears matters in the Fire Islands may be more complicated than Consul Agrippa suggested.”

  The Master Magus turned to study his superior officer, never once losing the expression of amused superiority. “I will be highly surprised if that turns out to be the case,” Darius said.

  “Really?” This time it was the Praetor’s turn to smile. “It’s been my experience that things are always more complicated in the field than our representatives in the Senate believe them to be. You really must get out more, Darius, or you’d understand that.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he returned his attention to Marcus. “I’d like to see what your men can do. Where is the nearest field or parade ground where you can put them through their paces?”

  “They’re your men now, Praetor,” Marcus reminded him. “And I think you will discover that their resistance to local fevers will be a great advantage if you plan to reassert Aquila’s control of the surrounding islands.”

  “You’ve intrigued me, Lesser Tribune,” Titus told him, “but you haven’t convinced me yet. The parade ground?”

  Marcus gave the necessary order and the men pivoted in perfect unison and began to file up the road toward the Aquilan castrum.

  The townspeople cheered as they passed and kept cheering as the Praetor and his officers approached.

  Behind them, Titus’ legion began to land on the docks.

  ****

  “Here,” Praetor Titus picked a neatly folded sash off the table he was sitting behind and tossed it to Marcus as he entered what used to be Praetor Castor’s office and saluted.

  Marcus caught the piece of cloth, noting with interest the thick red band of color bordered on one side by a thin green line and on the other by a thin black one.

  “You’re hereby promoted to Tribune,” Titus told him. “You deserve the Order of the Eagle for what you’ve accomplished here, but you’re not going to get it. Master Magus Darius will see to that much at least. Your uncle and your father have been playing games again back home and their enemies have distorted your actions out here to make them look like a power grab to further your family ambitions.”

  “That man is my family in name only,” Marcus growled. “I was raised by my maternal grandparents. I’ve only even met him half a dozen times. By the eye of Sol Invictus, Praetor, the man disinherited me to pave the way to marrying his fifth wife.”

  “I know,” Titus told him. “In fact, a lot of people know—but this is the state of politics in Aquila today.” He grimaced in obvious distaste. “Your survival and crushing success when so many of your better-connected superiors led you into disaster is a great embarrassment to many important families. Your actions demonstrate that a combination of cool thinking and traditional legion discipline is all it took to knock down this resurgence of the Rule of Twenty and too many people are asking why only a single hand commanded by a mere Lesser Tribune appears to have had those capacities in the Fire Islands. You’ve embarrassed people and they want to break you for it to distract the public from their own role in putting those incompetent asses in command. Fortunately for you, there are opposing houses who want to keep that from happening—not from any sense of justice, unfortunately, but because they will benefit from embarrassing your enemies.”

  He gestured toward a chair on the other side of the table. “Take a seat and pour us both a drink.”

  Marcus filled two cups of wine, then sat across from the Praetor.

  “Unfortunately,” Titus picked up his lecture, “those championing your cause were not strong enough to immediately win your case—just to make an unpleasant compromise which will protect you in the short term while I rehabilitate your reputation with my report on your actions here.”

  Marcus could feel a sheen of sweat entirely unconnected to the heat begin to form on his brow. “What sort of compromise?”

  “You’ve been exiled in lieu of trial.”

  Marcus surged to his feet. “No!”

  “Sit down!” the Praetor snapped and reflexes trained since he was fourteen years old betrayed Marcus. His body responded to his superior officer’s order and he sat.

  “I understand how you feel,” Titus told him in a voice that was not unkind. “You have won a great victory against extraordinary odds and in the face of incompetent superior officers. You truly do deserve the highest honors Aquila can bestow on you. But you’re not going to get them. Even that promotion I just gave you is going to enrage some of our senators who are lashing out at everything in their fear and desperation to hold onto their power.”

  Titus sat back in his chair and took a long sip of his wine. When Marcus started to speak he waggled a forefinger at him, silently ordering him to shut his mouth again.

  “Now there’s just you and me here, so let’s be clear about this. I know you’d rather stand trial and make your case in Aquila and damn the consequences, but I’m not going to let you do that because you’re a promising young officer who all by himself salvaged victory from disaster. I’ll be damned if I stand by and let the legions permanently lose such a man because of political infighting. Do you understand?”

  Marcus reluctantly nodded.

  “Good!” Titus picked up a velum scroll off his table. “Now you have a half-brother in the Jeweled Hills, do you not?”

  “Yes,” Marcus nodded. “He lives in the city of Amatista. May I ask how you know that, Sir?”

  The Praetor ignored the question. “You’re going to use your exile to visit him.”

  “Sir? Amatista must be at least twenty-five hundred miles from here. And as for Juan Pablo, I’ve never actually met him. My father married his mother according to the local customs in the Jeweled Hills while serving on a diplomatic mission when he was a young man. He abandoned her and his son when he returned to Aquila where the marriage and son weren’t recognized because the woman wasn’t a citizen of the Republic. He’s about twenty years older than me. I only know him at all because my grandfather insisted that I write to my numerous half-siblings as a way to practice my letters when I first started learning to read. Juan Pablo was one of the few who responded seriously.”

  “And the letters helped you form a pretty close bond,” Titus suggested.

  Marcus shook his head. The whole line of questioning perplexed him. “No, Sir, I wouldn’t even describe Juan Pablo as a genuine friend. He’s just an illegitimate relative who lives more than fifteen hundred miles from Aquila. Corresponding with him has always been interesting, but—” Marcus shrugged. “He lives in the Jeweled Hills, Sir. It can take as much as two years for a letter to reach him and his response to come back to me.”

  “Then how do you explain this?” Titus asked and tossed him th
e scroll he’d been holding. The seal had been broken and Marcus immediately recognized Juan Pablo’s script.

  My Dear Brother Marcus,

  I hope this letter finds you well and, I’m ashamed to say, unhappy with your current circumstances for I need your aid and I’m afraid you will not extend it if you are too content with your life in the legions. There is no easy—and perhaps there is no sane—way to ask you this, so I shall just blurt it out onto the parchment. I need you to take a leave of absence from your military responsibilities and come immediately to my home in Amatista. I have an extremely serious problem the nature of which I can’t risk putting into writing. And though I’ve wracked my poor brains until they feel enfeebled I can think of no one but you who might help me solve it. I wish that I could call upon the bonds of our blood to encourage you to race to my side but we both know that despite the importance of family to each of our peoples, our much despised father renders such an appeal ridiculous for us. So instead I will call upon your well-developed sense of honor. If you feel that the manner in which our father abandoned us is as disgraceful as I do, overcome the disability of our shared blood and do what he would never dare. Stand up for a relative in distress and journey north to Amatista. I am a wealthy man and will happily reimburse all of your expenses—just come, I beg of you, before it is too late.

  Your brother,

  Juan Pablo Cazador

  In the 221st Year of the Conquest

  Marcus lowered the letter and sat silently considering it for several long moments. It truly was an extraordinary request made more so by the fact that it was already eighteen months old, but evidently his half-brother had learned more of Marcus through their correspondence than he had learned of Juan Pablo.

  “I would consider it a great boon if I could recruit a couple of men to join me in my leave-of-absence,” he told the Praetor.

  “Granted,” Titus told him.