LEGIONNAIRE
THE SEA OF GRASS
By Gilbert M. Stack
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2017 by Gilbert M. Stack
Cover Copyright 2017 by Shirley Burnett
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Dedication
I want to thank Patrick Wyman for his vivid podcast on The Fall of Rome and Louis L'Amour for showing us the story possibilities in the Great Plains. But mostly this novel is for everyone who's wondered what the legions would have done if faced with fell and overpowering magics far from home. With your shield or on it, Marcus!
Table of Contents
Dedication
Prologue: Very Little Rainfall and Teeming with Nomadic Savages
Day One: He’s Awfully Young
Day Three: We Are Familiar with Your Brother
Day Four: The Men Are Sharp and Well-Trained
Day Five: An Issue of Purity
Day Six: Armor Up
Day Seven: How Bad Do You Think It Is?
Day Eight: Might As Well Let the Savages Kill Us
Day Nine: It’s Risky
Day Ten: Why Is It Buzzing?
Day Eleven: We’re Surrounded by Sinkholes
Day Twelve: Beautiful and Awe Inspiring
Day Thirteen: What’s Wrong with the Fort?
Day Fourteen: Time Is Not Our Friend
Day Fifteen: It Might Get Bloody
Day Sixteen: The Time Things Would Be Hardest
Day Seventeen: We’re Not the Ones Who Are Going to Be Dying
Day Eighteen: Severed Skulls Were Not the Ideal Choice of Weapons
Day Nineteen: They Aren’t Going Away
Day Twenty: Outnumbered Ten to One
Day Twenty-One: We Are Legionnaires!
Day Twenty-Eight: I Regret to Inform You
About Gilbert M. Stack
Other Works by Gilbert M. Stack
Contact Gilbert M. Stack
On the Sea of Grass, Tribune Marcus Venandus once again proved his worth. Thinking only to start his exile in the far off Jeweled Hills, he quickly became entangled in dangers and responsibilities that dwarfed those he encountered in the Fire Islands, once again saving the Republic from a substantial and unexpected threat…
Severus Liberus
Prologue
Very Little Rainfall and Teeming with Nomadic Savages
“This interview is a courtesy, Lesser Tribune. I should have simply had you arrested. You were, after all, exiled some six months ago.”
“Tribune,” Marcus Venandus corrected the rather pudgy Aquilan official who had not even bothered to rise from his parchment-strewn table to greet him despite his talks of courtesy.
“Excuse me?”
“My rank,” Marcus explained to him, “is tribune. I was promoted by Praetor Titus Virtuus for my actions in saving the thirty-second legion, killing the rebel witchdoctor, Kekipi, and preserving Aquila’s hold on the Fire Islands against three subsequent rebel attacks with only a handful of men.”
The cool recitation momentarily off footed the self-important official in the governor’s office of the port city of Dona, the Republic of Aquila’s foothold on the southern coast of the upper continent of Septemtrio. “I, um,” he paused to straighten a pile of parchment, then returned to the attack. “I have no information regarding—”
Marcus handed him a rolled parchment in which his former commander had eloquently summed up his accomplishments in saving the island of Mokupani after the previous commanding officer had led the legion to utter ruin.
Irritated, the man snatched the scroll out of his hands and quickly read the document. As he did so, Marcus had the satisfaction of watching his eyes widen in surprise. “I, um, none of this news has reached us here in Dona yet,” the man complained when he finished reading.
“How could it, Sir?” Marcus asked him in as friendly a manner as he could muster. “The Fire Islands are nearly two thousand miles away by ship. I’ve been sailing around the coast of Austellus for nearly two months—I left on the first ship, three days after I received the Senate’s decision to exile me. How could anyone have beaten me with the news of my promotion?”
“Well, um, yes,” the official agreed somewhat mollified, “but, um, you do realize that the latest information the governor has still places you on the list of proscribed individuals. You’re still not permitted to be here.”
“Of course, Sir,” Marcus agreed. “The Senate probably has Praetor Virtuus’ report now, but who knows how long it will take that august body to deal with this rather minor matter when it has so many grave concerns to occupy its time.”
“Right, right,” the official stated. He repositioned himself in his seat, trying to get more comfortable. “But that means we still have to deal with this exile—”
“It’s largely irrelevant, Sir,” Marcus told him.
“What?” the outrage on the man’s face threatened to bolster his initial antagonism.
“What I mean to say, Sir,” Marcus mollified him, “is that I have personal business in the Jeweled Hills. There will be plenty of time for the Senate to rescind my exile before I’m able to return to the Republic.”
Marcus’ clarification did not fully satisfy the official. “Well then, why are you lingering in Dona then? According to my reports, you’ve been here nearly ten days.”
“I’m having trouble finding a ship that will take me to the Jeweled Coast,” Marcus explained. “Apparently there’s been a lot of pirate activity of late and we’re moving into the stormy season.”
“Quite right,” the official agreed until he apparently realized that his comment might serve as a justification for Marcus continuing in Dona indefinitely. “But that’s not an excuse for you to ignore your exile.” He considered the problem for a moment. “I guess you’ll have to take the overland route across the Sea of Grass.”
“The overland route, Sir?” Marcus repeated. “Forgive me, but I’ve never been this far north before and I’m trying to remember my lessons from the lycee. I thought that everyone took the sea route to the Jeweled Coast and then traveled inland to the Jeweled Hills.”
“No, no, there is an alternative route,” the official said. “Let me see here, I think I have a map buried somewhere on this table.” He pried at his stacks of parchment for a couple of minutes until he found what he was looking for and stretched it out above his other documents.
“Look, here we are in Dona in the foothills of the Sturm Mountains.” As he examined his maps, all the hostility drained out of the man as if he thoroughly enjoyed lecturing on the local geography. “These mountains rise in height as they travel northeast for about four hundred miles. Then they break down into foothills again here and form the Jeweled Hills. Understand?”
Marcus merely nodded, pleased to have the opportunity to study the map and not wanting to do anything that would turn this man antagonistic again.
“For the first two hundred or so miles,” the official continued, “the mountains come practically to the edge of the ocean, but after that a very fertile coastline develops. It’s some hundred to one hundred and fifty miles deep in most areas. Except for a couple of city states in the southern portion of that coastline which belong to the Trevilian Federation—the so called, Pirate Islands—this area forms the southern third or so of the Jeweled Coast. Normally you would take
a ship here, probably to Diamonte, and travel inland to the Jeweled Hills. But there is an alternate route that has become much more popular with the rise of all of this pirate activity.”
He pointed to an area north of Dona and west of the Sturm Mountains. “These plains are called the Sea of Grass. They’re pretty useless—very little rainfall and teeming with nomadic savages. It’s only about four hundred miles north to south, but you can’t go the direct route. Mostly you need to follow the water sources and skirt a great salt pan that stretches across the northern half of the plain like a great wound. We’ve established a handful of forts along the way to protect travelers now that the sea route is becoming problematic. Large caravans of wagons have taken advantage of this to ply the land between the forts. One leaves Dona about every ten days. You can attach yourself to the next one and with a little luck be in the Jeweled Hills in just four or five weeks.”
Marcus hadn’t heard about the caravans. He and his companions had barely moved from the dockside inn they’d taken lodgings in while looking for a ship to help them finish their journey. He’d never even considered trying to get to his half-brother’s home in Amatista by land.
“Thank you, Sir,” he told the official. “This has been very helpful. This route is definitely worth investigating.”
The man frowned slightly when Marcus did not immediately commit himself to joining the caravan. “I think you’ll find this gets you to your destination months earlier than waiting on a ship willing to brave the northern coastline.” He hesitated a moment before continuing. “And I’d like to be able to report to the governor that you’ll be joining the next caravan. While I hope the Senate will act quickly to reverse your exile, it is technically still in force.”
“Yes, of course, it is,” Marcus agreed. “If you could direct me to a place I can learn more about these wagons, I’ll see about getting out of your hair and completing my journey.”
For the first time in the entire conversation, the official smiled. “The man you’ll want to speak to is named Burkhard. He’s the caravan master. He’ll be able to set you up with space in one of the wagons. It may cost a bit more than sailing, but…” He spread his hands as if to ask, what can you do?
“You’ve been very helpful, Sir,” Marcus told him. “I hope you will not take offense when I say that I wasn’t looking forward to an extended stay in your fine city.”
The official finally stood and offered Marcus his hand. “Of course not, you’ve a journey to complete and until all the technicalities are resolved back in the Senate, we have a proscription list to enforce. I wish you a quick and, well, I can’t imagine that traveling across those dry plains in a big wagon will be pleasant, but I hope you have a journey as pleasant as it can reasonably be.”
They shook hands, each man grasping the other’s wrist in the Aquilan manner. Then Marcus retrieved his scroll documenting his promotion and left.
Day One
He’s Awfully Young
Marcus strode to the left of his wagon as it approached the staging point for the caravan as the rim of the sun first appeared over the horizon. There was a frenzy of confusion in the air as dozens of others did as he was doing. Most appeared to be merchants striving to get their goods through to the Jeweled Cities north of the Sea of Grass when the traditional sea lanes were closed to traffic, but there were more than a smattering of other travelers as well ranging in rank from foreign nobles to common folk. There was also a detachment of well over fifty green band legionnaires—without any reds or blacks as far as Marcus could see, but the staging area was large and it was possible he simply hadn’t spotted them yet.
He had decided to buy a wagon primarily because he had a significant amount of treasure to transport—the spoils of defeating Kekipi in the Fire Islands. The rebel witchdoctor had accumulated quite a horde of gold ingots, pearls and minted silver coins of the Qing Empire far to the northeast. That last had perplexed him mightily as he could think of no reason for such a horde to exist in the Fire Islands, so he had reported most of those chests to his superiors in Aquila. But as to the ingots, he had passed many out to his surviving men as their share of the plunder and kept the majority of the chests for himself. The pearls he simply hadn’t reported.
When he had gotten back to the Aquila castrum in the town of Maleko, he had confiscated the horde of the men who had tried to murder him and his hand—his superior officers, the praetor and great tribune. Again he had kept a significant portion for himself, but used the rest to help him recruit native troops to fill out the ranks of his depleted legion. Generous gifts to influential natives like Makuahine Akela had helped to start the recruits volunteering and regular payment of their salaries had helped keep them from deserting again. He’d turned the remnants—together with a thorough accounting of his expenditures—over to Praetor Titus Virtuus when the man had assumed command of the legion and set his trusty adjutant, Calidus Vulpes, to smuggling out his own treasure less Praetor Titus take it on himself to confiscate it for the good of the legion. The fact that Marcus was owed a substantial portion of the plunder as the de facto head of the legion in Mokupani was unlikely to dissuade the Praetor from depriving him of this significant wealth.
It was Calidus who had suggested Marcus buy one of the large wagons used by most of those traveling with the caravan. He had also insisted they buy a cargo of very high quality Teriseti wine to use to camouflage the treasure. Marcus was not really comfortable buying a cargo. Buying wine to transport and sell to others somehow wasn’t as reputable as buying land to grow grapes and make wine. However, his adjutant’s math was unassailable. With only Marcus, Calidus, and Black Vigil Severus Lupus traveling together there was a significant chance of them being robbed if anyone found out just how much wealth they carried with them. The wine would make them appear to be just like the majority of the other wagons in the caravan and discourage people from examining them too closely.
So Marcus had bought a massive wagon capable of carrying twelve thousand pounds in its bed which they used up fast at nearly four hundred pounds to the amphora of wine. He’d also bought a team of four horses to haul that weight, and hired a probably-not-trustworthy local teamster named Kuno to drive the wagon. Now all that was left was to find Burkhard, the caravan master, so he could pay his fee and he’d be off like a merchant to the Jeweled Hills.
He frowned at the thought. How could his fortunes have literally soared so high and sunk so low at the same time? Maybe he could pretend the wine was merely for his personal use or a gift for his brother when he reached Amatista. It wasn’t like he needed the money after the plunder in the Fire Islands.
Ahead of him, the caravan master’s son, Gernot, appeared with a parchment scroll, pausing to speak with the owners of the wagon ahead of him. Money changed hands and Gernot made a notation on his scroll before rolling it back up, pointing at a place further along on the road, and approaching Marcus.
“Tribune,” the young man greeted him with the same perpetual scowl he’d worn through their first meeting two days ago. The boy’s father had smiled happily at the thought of collecting a fee for an additional wagon, but his son of no more than sixteen years had definitely appeared less pleased. “You’re very nearly late. It’s a bad start. I ought to ban you from the caravan.”
Marcus took a glance over his shoulder where at least a dozen additional wagons were still rolling slowly toward the staging area. He’d be very surprised if a dozen more weren’t still making their way out of town. If it had been up to him, he would have insisted that everyone in the caravan report the night before—but who was he to tell these local experts how to run their business?
He turned back to Gernot. “If you turn people away for being on time, what are you going to do with all those who are genuinely late? It will cost you a pretty penny if you lose half your caravan.”
The scowl deepened, which intrigued Marcus. He hadn’t thought the man’s frown could grow more severe. “Don’t get smart with me, Tribune. Smart
men tend to die out on the trail. They think they know what they’re doing but too often end up getting themselves—and others—killed.”
Gernot simply didn’t like Aquilans, Marcus decided. It was a common attitude out in the conquered territories. The boy’s father might not like them either, but he loved gold and silver and knew that there was no profit in antagonizing his overlords. The son did not yet have his parent’s wisdom.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Marcus told him. “In the meantime, you have a lot of work to do if this caravan is to depart an hour after dawn as your father said he planned to do.” In Marcus’ opinion, there was no hope that they would leave even by noon. It was a problem Aquila often encountered in the provinces. The discipline so necessary to making any enterprise run efficiently simply didn’t exist in most of the world—which went a long way to explaining the success of Aquila’s legions in conquering so much of the planet.
“We’ll get started when my father is ready,” Gernot told him. “Now give me your fee so I can see to these other wagons.”
Marcus definitely did not like the young man’s tone, but he counted out the silver denari without expressing his disapproval. It did not pay to offend the caravan master on the first day of the journey.
The young man counted the coins into his box and started to leave.
“Gernot!” Marcus snapped having just discovered the limits of his patience.
The young man turned angrily on him. “What is it now, Tribune? I have work to be doing!”
“Record my payment on your parchment,” Marcus told him. He spoke slowly and forcefully to make certain the young man understood how much trouble he was courting.
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