The Sea of Grass

by Gilbert M. Stack

  “Then there is the pregnant woman. She and her husband are in danger of being left here alone and I don’t see them surviving that even if the savages do not return.”

  “I see,” Evorik said, but it was obvious to Marcus that he did not understand.

  “So here is what I suggest. We take a day to let the woman have her child and recover part of her strength, and then we go north by way of your short cut. Anyone from the caravan who wishes to journey with us will be allowed to do so. But if they wish to take the traditional route or to return to the south, we permit that as well.”

  The Gota lord nodded. “You make good sense, Tribune, but I want to make one change to your plan. I’m told that the sun bouncing off the white salt can be blinding, so I want to make the journey across the pan at night. There’s a good moon and the savages are much less likely to notice our dust cloud at night than they are during the day.”

  Marcus considered this suggestion, rolling it around in his mind. Traveling at night was usually considered more dangerous, but… “If your scout agrees, I’ll bring my men as well.”

  “It is settled then. Let us celebrate our decision with more of your fine wine. I think we will want to fill all the amphorae we can with water in case this shortcut is not as easy as our guide suggests.”

  That made a lot of sense to Marcus. In fact, he might well dump out a few more amphorae of wine to build a strong reserve. It would be a shame to waste it, but it wasn’t as if he were a merchant depending on the profit he would get from selling the drink.

  Day Nine

  It’s Risky

  The prickling sensation returned the moment dawn began to brighten the horizon. It started on the back of Marcus’ neck as he leaned over the small camp fire watching Calidus cook breakfast. The meat was some kind of snake indigenous to the plains, not that Marcus really cared. He was a legionnaire. He could eat anything.

  He touched the back of his neck and immediately looked around. There was no wind at the moment—a rarity on the Sea of Grass—and thus no dust cloud to hide an enemy attack, but that didn’t matter. He ran for the walls of the fort as the prickling feeling extended down his shoulders and onto his arms. The fort was large and it took him three minutes to reach the wall—a huge dirt mound looking down into a ditch that surrounded the fort. The sentries he’d had Severus post over the night were still in position and doing their jobs. “Do you see anything?” he asked them.

  The two greens saluted. “No, Tribune! The plains are quiet.”

  He stared out at the Sea of Grass ahead of them and confirmed that they were correct. Then he sent each of them to circumnavigate the fort and check with the other sentries.

  Waiting for their return seemed to take an interminably long time but commanders had to get used to waiting while their orders were carried out so Marcus occupied his time by watching the terrain for enemy activity while he thought about what the prickling sensation might mean.

  The first time he felt it had been when Seneca’s farseeing spell had gone awry. The steam had made his flesh react like this, just as the dust storm had. Was it some new sensitivity to danger he was experiencing or just a bad case of nerves?

  He looked back into the castrum where a nervous Burkhard was finally succeeding in getting the merchants moving—not that he had convinced most to lighten their wagons. Marcus wondered how many of those merchants would change their mind about following the Caravan Master when they learned the legion was not going with them.

  The prickling intensified for a moment, then receded again, not disappearing but becoming a mere irritant. He needed to figure out what the sensation meant. Was he making the right decision in taking Evorik’s shortcut or the wrong one?

  It took several minutes but the legionnaires returned to him to report that no one could see any savages in any direction. Slightly mollified, Marcus thanked them and returned to the caravan where Burkhard had begun shouting questions at Severus. The moment he saw Marcus, he turned his attention on him. “What do you mean you’re going through the salt pan? Last night we agreed that you would accompany the caravan to Tertium.”

  Marcus shook his head. “That’s not what we agreed, Caravan Master. What we agreed was that if I took the trail to Tertium, the wagons would have to seriously lighten their loads. Most of these merchants did not even discard their excess cargo. They have little chance of making it to the next fort even if the legion goes with you. So it is of no matter at all to you that we will not be in your company but taking our own path, because in all likelihood you are dead either way. You can’t make enough speed with wagons that heavy.”

  Señor Adán Nacio stepped out of the crowd to confront Marcus. “You are only a military man and cannot be expected to understand the complex ways of commerce, but there is a tremendous amount of money to be made here. We will all,” he gestured toward the other merchants, “happily cut you in for a bonus of say two percent of the net value of our wares if you will see us through to the Jeweled Hills.”

  A touch of human greed gnawed at Marcus, but no self-respecting patrician of Aquila ever let himself appear to be motivated by the pursuit of wealth. “I’m sure you think that’s a generous offer and maybe it is, but money is of no use to the dead. And I do not believe that you are likely to reach the Jeweled Hills. Lord Evorik’s alternative comes with a different set of dangers, but to my mind also offers the best chance of success.”

  “Perhaps three percent would be a better figure,” Adán suggested as if Marcus hadn’t spoken.

  Marcus waved his hand dismissively at the comment and walked away.

  Before he’d traveled fifty feet, Calidus called out to him. “Tribune!”

  Marcus turned and found the young would-be magus, Seneca Liberus, hurrying along beside his adjutant.

  “This young scholar,” Calidus said, “asked me to help him find you. Apparently he couldn’t hear your voice putting those merchants into their places.”

  Seneca blushed. “I’m…I’m sorry to interrupt, Tribune. But I listened to what you said last night and I’d like to take the shortcut across the salt pan with you, but…” He clenched and unclenched his fists helplessly.

  “But…” Marcus prompted him.

  “But Señor Joquin refuses to go that way and my things are in his wagon.”

  Marcus sighed. “How much baggage are you bringing?”

  “Just a chest of clothes and a crate of books.”

  Marcus cringed—books were always heavy—and looked to Calidus.

  “We’ll make room for him Tribune, but it might cost you another amphora of wine.”

  “Fine,” Marcus agreed. “Calidus, detail a couple of legionnaires to help him move, but do it quickly, Burkhard’s ready to start his wagons rolling.”

  “Oh thank you, Tribune!” Seneca gushed and ran off much faster than the adjutant to recover his things from the Gente merchant’s wagon.

  As wagons began to move toward the broken gates of the castrum, other merchants—mostly Gente—approached Marcus about joining their venture across the salt pan. Ahead of them, he saw Severus arguing with Burkhard’s son, Gernot. He finally grabbed the boy by the scruff of his neck and pulled him to the side while legionnaires forced five wagons—all presumably carrying legion supplies—out of the caravan. All in all, it looked like Marcus and Evorik would be leading maybe fifteen wagons. All of the others were moving on toward Fort Tertium at a glacial crawl.

  Dust had begun to cover the fort from the moving wagons when Alberto ran up to Marcus carrying a large clay jug. “Tribune! Tribune! You must share a drink with me. My Carmelita, she has given birth to a boy.”

  Marcus smiled. For the first time since the sun had come up he began to feel good. “That’s great, Señor. Congratulations!”

  Alberto pulled the stopper out of his jug and tipped the light brown liquid into his mouth. “Whew!” he said wiping his lips on his shirt sleeve. “That is strong. I bought this brandy in Dona to celebrate this occasion. Please, please
, have a drink with me.”

  Marcus accepted the jug and took a long pull. Alberto was right. This was strong stuff—the sort of drink that put hair on your chest if you didn’t have it there already.”

  “What are you going to name the lad,” he asked.

  A huge grin split Alberto’s face. “We will name him Gaspar after my father-in-law and Marcus after you.”

  “After me?” Marcus asked with genuine surprise.

  “Yes, Tribune, after you! Without you, our journey would have ended that first day on the Sea of Grass, and without you, we would have been killed by savages and forced to leave behind our cargo so that my father-in-law would be ruined. You are our savior and we will remember your courage and your generous spirit every time we speak our son’s name.”

  Marcus felt a surprising tightness in his throat and for a moment couldn’t speak. Then he clapped Alberto on the back again and said, “Thank you! You just be sure to take excellent care of my little namesake. Now I know you’re excited, but—”

  He broke off for a second as the prickling sensation suddenly returned, then cut off again.

  He looked around. What was going on? Why the sudden stop and start to the—

  The dust thinned above him as he looked up and he felt the pins and needles directly on his face. Then the light breeze pushed another thick cloud of dust overhead and the sensation departed again.

  Why would the sensation appear and disappear with the sunlight? It didn’t make any sense, did it?

  “Tribune? Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes,” he lied. “I’m perfect this morning. Now what I want you to do is go back to your wife and make certain she is as comfortable as can be. It’s going to be a long hard journey for her and we need to help her regain her strength.”

  “Of course, Tribune,” Alberto said and continued to assure Marcus that he would take the most excellent care of Carmelita and the infant, Gaspar Marcus, all the way back to the wagon.

  ****

  The last wagon had pulled out of Fort Segundus and had already disappeared from view—not because of its great distance, but because of the billowing cloud of dust kicked up by more than eighty wagons, and three hundred twenty horses making their way across the overly dry plains. It had taken nearly two hours to get them all through the broken gates and Marcus hadn’t felt the strange prickling sensation for most of that time. The more he considered the abruptness with which the pins and needles sensation began and ended, the more it bothered him—especially once he remembered that the cloud of steam released by Seneca’s spoiled farseeing spell had not been the first time he’d experienced the strange feeling.

  Some half-a-year previously in the Fire Islands, Marcus had been soaked with a disgusting magical goo that erupted from the broken star-shaped pendant worn by the rebel witchdoctor, Kekipi, The same goo had killed three of his legionnaires, but in Marcus it had only caused a minute or more of intense pain reminiscent of the far weaker feeling of pins and needles he had been experiencing here in the Sea of Grass. He didn’t want there to be a connection between the two sensations, but the fact remained that it was a similar kind of pain.

  Had the goo changed him? And if so, what did this feeling mean? At the time of the attack on the caravan he had wondered if it were some sort of warning signal—a sixth sense. But if it was warning him of something now he couldn’t figure out what that was.

  He continued to stare after the wagons. He could hear the noise they made rolling across the Sea of Grass, the bouncing and creaking of the wagons and the neighing of the horses punctuated by an occasional sharp shout from a man. They were all dead. And if they died too soon, those who had stayed behind in Fort Segundus would be killed as well. They really didn’t have the numbers to defend themselves against a serious attack.

  He continued to weigh the problem in his mind. If the savages had moved on from here to attack Fort Tertium then it was highly probable that their leader would have left someone to watch the old fort. That someone could have been a simple scout lying flat on the plains a couple of miles away with no realistic chance of ever being discovered, but it seemed more likely that it would be a shaman with the savages equivalent of a farseeing spell. That way Teetonka could receive very detailed knowledge of what was happening at Fort Segundus without actually risking even one of his men.

  He looked at his supposition again and decided it was sound, if hypothetical.

  He took his line of reasoning a step farther. A shaman was a very valuable resource. He wouldn’t want to leave him all alone in case an Aquila magus managed to spot him and the legions succeeded in boxing him in. So the easiest thing to do was to detach one of the smaller tribes rallying to his totem and set them as bodyguards for the shaman. If a significant force were to arrive, the tribe could send messengers ahead to warn Teetonka. If a weaker force—say a large caravan with a score of guards plus some Gota warriors and roughly a hand of legionnaires were to arrive, they could harass the new force while waiting for modest reinforcements. But if that force were to split itself in two…

  Marcus jumped to his feet and ran in search of Seneca, Evorik and Severus.

  ****

  “It’s all speculation,” Evorik pointed out. “We don’t know anyone’s been watching us at all and we certainly don’t know how strong their numbers are if they are watching.”

  “Absolutely true,” Marcus agreed before turning to Seneca. “Did Magus Jocasta tell you if the shaman have mastered farseeing magic?”

  Seneca slowly nodded his head. “They remove their spirits from their bodies and place them into birds of prey like hawks or eagles. Apparently it is a very difficult skill to master, although I’d like to give it a try.”

  “How far away can they be and keep control of the animal?” Marcus interrupted.

  “I asked her the very same thing,” Seneca said. The similarity in the workings of his and Marcus’ minds clearly excited him.

  “And she said?”

  “It varies with the strength of the shaman, but something like eight to ten miles was the best most can master.”

  “That’s not very far on horseback,” Evorik mused, “and they’d see us coming so we couldn’t surprise them.”

  “That is where I think you’re wrong,” Marcus told him.

  Evorik frowned. “How so?”

  “It all has to do with how they’re looking for us. Tell me Seneca, how do you defeat a farseeing?”

  “Well there’s a spell for short term blockage and wards that can be set up to block an area permanently. Fort Segundus had primitive ones set up—nothing truly permanent—but the savages destroyed them. Would you like me to show you the remains?”

  “Not right now,” Marcus told him. “So how would you defeat a farseeing, or a hawk-seeing in this case, if you didn’t have access to your spell?”

  Seneca stared at him as if he couldn’t believe the Tribune could have asked him something so foolish. “You can’t do that. It takes magic to defeat magic.”

  Marcus smiled at him. “Seneca, this is your lucky day, because I’m going to teach you a mystery of the legions. Just remember you owe me a lesson when I come to claim it.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Lord Evorik, you probably already know this, but please bear with me as I instruct this young man.” In point of fact, he had no idea if Evorik knew what he was going to tell Seneca, but he wanted to give the Gota lord cover if he needed it.

  “Seneca, there are two major ways to defeat a farseeing. The first, as you have suggested, is by magic, but that often does not help the legions because our enemies know something is amiss by the big blank spot in their vision.”

  Evorik chuckled. Severus, Black Vigil that he was, stood silent as if he’d heard everything before and was patiently waiting for the lesser souls to catch up with him.

  “The second way is much cleverer, because it uses camouflage to either hide subjects from the watcher’s view or to disguise the subject so that the
magus misinterprets what his magic reveals to him. It’s this latter course that I plan to use today. Whether our shaman is using traditional farseeing or a hawk, he can’t see us so long as we use the dust cloud as cover when we move.”

  Evorik’s eyes twinkled while Seneca’s mouth opened in a great big, “Ohhhhhhh.”

  Then Seneca shut his mouth and frowned for a moment. “But why would we be moving in the dust cloud? The wagons are traveling northeast. We want to head straight north and we’re not going until tomorrow anyway.”

  “Wrong on all accounts,” Marcus told him. “Now the first thing we have to do—and it needs to be very fast—is to get every merchant and driver who stayed with us dressed up to look like legionnaires in case the dust clears and the shaman sends his bird back to check on us again.”

  “Dressed like—”

  “Then my legionnaires, Lord Evorik and our scout are going to slowly follow after the caravan. If my hypothesis is correct, the savages will attack them four or maybe six miles out from this castrum. Once the wagons are destroyed they can come on to Fort Segundus and take us down, or maybe wait until we hit the road.”

  “But if we trail behind the wagons and counterattack when they begin their raid…” Evorik said.

  “We have a chance to do enough damage to them that they won’t feel strong enough to attack again on their own,” Marcus finished for him.

  “It’s risky,” Severus noted, “but really not a bad risk. If the savages aren’t there, we can just return. If they are there in greater force than you’ve guessed, well, we might as well die out there as back here.”

  “But if I’m right, we not only kill a bunch of savages, we save the lives of a lot of merchants and make it damn unlikely that there will be any hostiles remaining in the area strong enough to chase us into the salt pan,” Marcus finished.

  “So what do we have to lose?” Evorik asked.

  “Only this—if I’m wrong and the savages are out there but ignoring the wagon to come at us first, we won’t be here to fight them and everyone we leave behind is likely to be dead.”