Seneca audibly swallowed. “Am I going to be one of the men you leave behind?”
“Yes,” Marcus told him. “I can’t risk you in the field in these conditions.” Then he gave the young man something to hang his courage on to. “You are the Acting Magus of this auxiliary unit. Call us the Seventy-Seven, because I have seventy-seven men plus officers and allied cavalry.”
The young man’s eyes widened with surprise before his lips turned upward in delight. He stood up and saluted. “Yes, Tribune, I will not let you down!”
“I know you won’t, Seneca, but remember—today, at least, I do not need you casting spells for me. I need you to use your brains to help me make it look like there are legionnaires in this camp.”
“Are we in agreement?” Marcus asked Evorik.
The Gota lord nodded.
“Then let’s get moving. The whole plan falls apart if the damn savages attack before we’re in position.”
****
Walking behind more than eighty wagons while trying to stay in the cloud of dust they kicked up was the very definition of unpleasant conditions. Despite the strip of cloth he’d used to cover his mouth, Marcus could taste the grit of the plains on his tongue and knew that every other man behind him could say the same. Evorik wore a perpetual scowl when Marcus could see him well enough to make out his expression, but the Gota prided themselves on their toughness and he did not whine or complain. Only Mataskah, the half-breed scout, suffered with more stoicism, but then, he’d lived out here in the Sea of Grass his entire life and so was probably more accustomed to these conditions.
Marcus had insisted the scout accompany them for two reasons. First, he knew the territory and that might prove useful if things went differently than the Tribune planned. But far more importantly, there was no way to know if the scout was truly loyal to them. He said that Teetonka would kill him for his white blood, but no one in the caravan really knew if that was true. If Marcus had left him behind, Mataskah could have ridden around them and warned the other savages of the Tribune’s plans and that would definitely be bad.
“Waiting,” Evorik grumbled, “is a shit job. Cavalry is meant to dash in and seize the glory.”
“There will be no glory to have if we move too soon,” Marcus reminded him. “But if I’m right, you’re going to have a drinking tale to make your fellows envious for the rest of your life.”
Marcus thought he was right. His skin had been prickling for twenty minutes now which suggested to him that a magical dust storm had kicked up in front of the wagons to conceal the approach of the savages.
The barbarian lord smiled at the thought of battle. “Yes, that will be good! I—”
The high-pitched battle cry of the savages which they’d been warned about at Fort Prime erupted into the night. Marcus’ surprise counterattack had preempted this shock tactic during their first battle, but his plan this second time involved moving in after the attack had begun. He’d weighed this decision hard in his mind and decided that it was necessary. First, he wanted to catch a large number of the savages in his attack and that required him to pull them in from their hit and run tactics and get them to commit to battle. Second, he believed that the merchants were too focused on the profits their goods would bring in the north to honestly evaluate the dangers in their chosen course of action. By letting the savages attack the caravan now, he increased the chance that the survivors would make a more sensible choice.
It was a hard decision, but when coupled with his need to decisively blunt this savage offensive, it seemed the only option that could accomplish all of his goals.
“Double-time!” he shouted and as one man, legionnaires who were already readying their weapons and squaring their shields moved to the mile-eating pace.
Evorik and his men kept up without orders. “We really have to get you all some horses,” the Gota happily told Marcus. “You move far too slowly on your own feet.”
“It’s all in the timing,” Marcus reminded him. Ahead of them the screams and shouts of Gente and Dona merchants joined the war cries of the savages. The natives would be sweeping down the column, leaping from their horses onto the wagons, attacking with bow and axe, and losing their sense of the larger battlefield—”
Ahead of him the rear wagon appeared and Marcus instantly revised his initial plan when he realized that horsemen were still approaching on either side.
“Form ranks,” he shouted, “one man deep. Pilum out! Throw on my order then kill the bastards straight up the line!”
Men scrambled and Evorik shouted orders to get his cavalry out of the coming line of attack.
The savages swooped their ponies around the last wagon and started to turn to go up the other side without ever realizing there was an organized force of men stepping out of the dust in front of them.”
“Throw pilums!” Marcus shouted, hurling his own as he said the words.
Eighty-one pilums launched into a dozen or so riders more as less at the same time.
Nine horses and five men went down and Lord Evorik bellowed, “Charge!”
The twenty Gota horsemen swept through the Aquilan line and butchered the startled savages with swift jabs of their spears.
Evorik barely even slowed down.
Within a dozen rapid heartbeats he was leading his men up the line of wagons searching for more horsemen to fight.
This was not the time for slow formations.
“Break ranks and charge! Find the bastards! Kill them all!” Marcus shouted and with a roar of fury and excitement his green legionnaires sprinted forward looking for more savages to fight. They found them everywhere—knocked from their ponies by the Gota sweeping ahead of them, or on their feet fighting merchants dagger to dagger or hatchet to sword. And the dust storm which was such an important component of the savage battle strategy proved again to be a double-edged weapon, for while it concealed the raiders on their approach it also hid from them the falling blade of the counterattack. After all, they expected to hear screams and shouts and it was remarkably hard to tell a man’s bellow of fury from a shriek of pain and rage.
Marcus’ legionnaires were green, but they stayed clustered in groups of friends as they fought the scattered savages they encountered. And three swords against one hatchet usually made a quick end to things. By the end of the battle, Marcus suffered only seven wounded men and no fatal casualties while Lord Evorik lost only one man dead when an arrow unluckily hit the warrior in the left eye.
The merchants, drivers and caravan guards had done less well. They had more than forty men injured and fifteen more straight up killed. And their casualties could have been much worse if the savages hadn’t put so much of their effort into killing at least one horse per wagon to make certain they crippled the caravan’s advance.
As to the savages? They’d killed more than seventy with Marcus’ little trick and while many had escaped, Marcus didn’t think they’d return without significant reinforcements.
Calidus and two legionnaires dragged a struggling savage across the plain to Marcus.
“What have we here?” Marcus asked. He’d given orders to kill the wounded among the savages. Normally they would have crucified them as a warning to others, but there were no big trees out here on the plains—really no trees at all.
“I think he’s the chief or something,” Calidus said. “He’s the only one wearing this feathered cloak.”
“Feathered cloak?” Marcus repeated. Calidus had succeeded in getting his full attention and he stepped forward to examine the prisoner. The cloak was indeed made of feathers—hawk feathers if Marcus was not mistaken—and the Tribune’s fingers prickled as he touched the thing.
Unable to punch or kick Marcus, the savage spit at him to show his defiance.
Clasping the cloak around the man’s neck was a bird’s skull—again in all likelihood a hawk’s. At his belt was a flint dagger—not steel like most of the savages wore. This one might well have been crafted by the man’s own hands. Marcus drew
the blade and again the tingling of his skin that had begun with the dust storm intensified.
“This is all magic, isn’t it?” he muttered.
The man also wore jewelry—a topaz rock secured to his wrist with a leather strap and a piece of quartz hanging far down from his neck so that it bounced against his heart.
“Strip him!” Marcus ordered. “Remove the jewelry as well as the loin cloth. Then take him over there somewhere and slit his throat. I think you’ve caught the shaman who’s been keeping track of us and I don’t want to take any chances with him.”
The men did as Marcus asked. While they executed the savage, Marcus squatted down and touched the ground next to the cloak.
He felt nothing special.
He touched the cloak and the pins and needles feeling immediately surfaced on his fingertips. He tried the back of his hand and got the same result. He then repeated the experiment with every item the shaman had owned. Was it magic he was detecting rather than danger? How was this possible?
Leaving the items on the ground he turned in time to see Calidus raise his sword and hack at the shaman’s neck. It took three good blows before the head fell to the ground. Immediately the force of the wind diminished and with it the prickling sensation quickly died away.
“It is magic,” Marcus muttered. “Why can I—”
He caught the movement from the corner of his eyes and turned in time to catch the Caravan Master’s son, Gernot, charging him with a dagger.
Stepping to the side at the last moment, he dodged the blow and drove a solid right fist hard into the young man’s mouth. The lower lip split and Gernot staggered back a step. Without hesitation, Marcus moved in and hit the young hothead again, making him drop his knife and knocking him to the ground.
“My mistress fought better than you,” Marcus spat the words. “What the hell is this all about?”
“My father may die because of you!” Gernot raged.
He tried to get back to his feet but by this time, Calidus and the two legionnaires had run back over and immobilized the young man.
“What did I do to his father?” Marcus asked Calidus.
“I don’t know, Sir. I haven’t seen the Caravan Master since we rescued the wagons.”
“The savages shot him in the neck!” Gernot screamed. Furious tears formed in his eyes.
“And that is my fault how?”
“You should have been here to protect him, but you took all the legionnaires away, you coward!”
“Are you really this stupid?” Marcus asked him. “I paid you to journey with this caravan. Your father owed me protection yet I have bailed him out of two battles. And those legion wagons also paid to come in this caravan. The legionnaires were not here to fight, but to travel. It’s you and your father who let everyone down. How dare you blame me for your failures?”
“He’s dying!” Gernot shouted.
“And if he lives, you will owe me his life!” Marcus snapped. “Now get up! You’ve tried to cheat me once and now you’ve tried to kill me. I’m done overlooking your stupidity because of your youth. Get up and get out of my sight!”
He turned to find his adjutant. “Calidus, I’m sick and tired of these merchants. Grab some legionnaires and get these wagons moving again. I want them all back in Fort Segundus before nightfall. Start by taking horses from the wagons of dead men to fill out the teams. When that’s not enough force them to throw out cargo until their horses can pull the wagons.”
An idea came to him. “And make sure you mark which wagons got an extra horse because I’m confiscating those animals. When we get back to Segundus we’ll put them with wagons trying to go north with us across the salt pan. Anyone who’s going back south can make do with only three horses.”
Calidus saluted and left to carry out his orders.
Marcus looked around him, not caring that his unhappiness showed on his face.
It was going to be a long day.
****
By the time that Marcus led the caravan back to Fort Segundus, he’d begun to really regret not finding the time to sleep the night before. To complicate the problem, he didn’t know how much rest he could squeeze in tonight either. Chaos reigned among the merchant wagons and he was going to have to get them organized—figure out who was going forward with him and who was going back to Dona if they were to have any chance of leaving again at dawn. His initial hope of starting for the salt pan under cover of darkness was now totally gone. With the shaman dead, it probably wouldn’t matter anyway, but he would have felt better if the caravan was miles away before the sun came up over the horizon. So instead of sleeping like he needed to, he arbitrated disputes between merchants and his legionnaires, forbid men with overloaded wagons from joining the northern party, and generally put out of his mind anyone who insisted that they were turning around and heading south.
“I am worried, my friend,” Lord Evorik announced as he stepped up beside him. “You are forcing all of these merchants to leave much of their goods behind and three percent of those goods are our plunder from these nasty skirmishes.”
“Please tell me you’re joking,” Marcus responded. The truth was, he didn’t know the Gota well enough to know if this was a serious complaint or not.
“Of course, I am!” Evorik insisted. “It does my heart good to see these merchants sweating over their lost profits.” He paused to shrug. “On the other hand, they do owe us three percent of their cargo.”
“We’re not merchants,” Marcus reminded him.
“No, we are warriors,” Evorik agreed. “But warriors deserve to be rewarded for their deeds and these merchants have promised us a measly three percent. Honestly, we should take one-fifth, but that will probably upset my half-brother because he’ll have to spend an afternoon listening to them whine about their lost sceattas and I like Alaric so I don’t want to upset him.”
“Alaric?” Marcus didn’t even try to conceal his surprise. “Are you saying your brother is Alaric, Thegn of Topacio?”
“Half-brother,” Evorik corrected him. “Why do you think he made me ambassador?”
“I never thought about it,” Marcus answered. He really ought to pay more attention to such details.
“I think you said that you were going to Amatista,” Evorik prompted. “You know, my second wife, Riciberga, is from there.”
“Daughter of the thegn?” Marcus ventured half-seriously.
The Gota shrugged, “Cousin. Her brother is an important man—an asshole named Totila.”
Connections clicked in Marcus’ mind. “The man whose daughter is marrying the son of the Thegn of Granate?”
“Very good,” Evorik complimented him on his knowledge. Then he added, “I think it’s a bad sign. Riciberga’s cousin better start watching out for himself.”
“Meaning?” Marcus asked although he thought he knew.
“Totila is building relationships with Amatista’s neighbors. A bond with me is one thing—I’m only the half-brother of the thegn and I have a great many half-brothers.” He smiled. “It is a natural consequence of having so many wives. But marrying his daughter to the actual son of a thegn? That suggests ambition.” His smile turned cruel. “I wonder if Totila has forgotten that Hathus of Granate is ambitious too. Every thegn wants to be Great Thegn and rule the other cities just like every son wants to cut his brothers out of their inheritance.”
“I remember reading once that you Gota don’t practice primogeniture like some kingdoms do. It’s one of the things our peoples have in common,” Marcus noted.
“That is correct,” Evorik told him. “Inheritance can be very complicated. I have heard that you Aquilans just write down what you want to happen and store the will in your Temple of the Virgins.” He laughed as if he couldn’t imagine something more foolish. “That works for our common people—the Gente and the lesser Gota—but for thegns…” He shrugged. “Why should a son let a piece of paper decide his future?”
“Perhaps its lucky we don’t have thegn
s,” Marcus reminded him.
“I do not understand how your government works,” Evorik admitted. “You cycle men in and out of your consulships and your other offices every year. I would get dizzy if I cared enough to try and follow it. Why do you put up with it?”
Explaining the complexities of Aquilan history to foreigners was rarely worth the effort. So Marcus contented himself with saying. “We had a very bad experience with kings about three centuries ago. So we got rid of them. And if the system appears complicated on the outside, well, it works for us.”
“Indeed it does. You’ve conquered three-fifths of the southern continent and have a toe hold on the coast of this one. Only the Qing are larger than your Republic.”
“We only came this far north because Dona stopped trading with us and began to supply our enemies. Trade is important, even if it’s done by merchants. I would think that the Senate will be furious with these pirates and savages and will be seeking an alliance with your people to reopen travel between your Jeweled Cities and our provinces.”
“Yes, I see that too. In fact, I am bringing letters from the Governor of Dona asking what we can do to help keep the trade routes open. I think we will mobilize some cavalry to push the savages back on the plains, but the pirates, they are a problem for the Jeweled Coast.”
Marcus thought about that for a moment. The great problem of the Jeweled Cities was that they could not unite for a common purpose. Everyone was always looking for a chance to cut down his neighbor. That did not bode well for their chances of taking down the pirates which meant Aquila would probably have to do it. And without the border states of the Trevilian Federation—those same pirate states—it was quite possible that Aquila would set about turning the Jeweled Coast into a new province or two. They would be very wealthy prizes and legionnaires and their praetors liked loot.
He wondered if Evorik and the other Gota understood that midterm danger?
It was time to get to work. “I should be—”
The Sea of Grass Page 10
