by Alan Smale
“I was trying…” Trying to raise Cahokia to become a suitable province for Roma? Seeking peace? Creating a series of alliances up and down the great rivers of the land to give the Hesperians bargaining power with the Roman Imperium? Marcellinus shook his head. However honorable the path he thought himself on, however true he thought the words, they would sound ridiculous coming out of his mouth to this young fop of a, what, tribune?
Marcellinus met Agrippa’s eye bleakly. “I have no interest in your opinion. Take me to your commanding officer immediately.”
He expected a blow. Instead, Agrippa smiled. “You expect my commanding officer to take a brighter view of this than I?”
In an almost leisurely way, Agrippa reached out and took hold of Marcellinus’s hair. Marcellinus’s reactions were so slow that he did not even raise a hand to try to prevent it.
Agrippa tugged, tilting Marcellinus’s head back. Again came the dissonant smell of rose water. With his other hand, Agrippa drew a line across Marcellinus’s throat with his thumbnail. “You do not give me orders, traitor. You are a disgrace to Roma and to the Praetorship you once held. Think yourself lucky I have a commanding officer in the field, for if I did not, I would kill you this moment and enjoy it.”
He let go of Marcellinus’s hair. Marcellinus put his hand to his throat and said nothing.
Agrippa leaned back and propped himself up on his elbow as if he were on a couch at a fine banquet. “And so, to my commanding officer you will go. D’you think he will show you mercy?”
Carefully, Marcellinus shook his head. “I do not.”
“Well, then,” said Agrippa. “You shan’t be disappointed.”
—
The soldiers fed him, lashed his wrists together with sinew and steel wire, and then slept around the fire. Marcellinus was awake for half the night but after that slept and did not awaken until they threw him over the back of a mule the next morning.
Off they went again, following the line of the Oyo northeast. Sometimes the muddy trail took them along the riverbank and at other times through the spring-green forest; the trail was straighter than the river. Marcellinus’s vantage point on the mule gave him little opportunity for sightseeing, but eventually he noticed that the Roman centuries were being guided by Hesperians, perhaps Cherokee by the sounds of their voices.
Agrippa and his centurions rode horses. The common soldiers did not march in formation but walked at their ease. The mules carried the food and the shields and armor. The Romans were obviously confident that the territory around them had been tamed.
Two days later Marcellinus was begging to walk with them, his wounded leg notwithstanding. Traveling thrown across a mule’s back was ignominious and nauseating. To his surprise Agrippa readily agreed to let him try it under his own power and even ordered a soldier to fashion him a crutch. Now Marcellinus hobbled along the path at the back of the group with a rope tied about his waist, presumably to save the legionaries the inconvenience of strolling after him if he should attempt to make a snail’s-pace break for it.
From time to time the centurions spoke to him to order him to hurry up or stand aside, eat or take a latrine break. The rank and file treated him with contempt and refused to respond to his questions. Agrippa, on his horse at the front of the party, was too far away to talk to.
As for Marcellinus, his thoughts were dominated by images of Anapetu’s face as she lay bleeding to death in his arms.
Ocatan had fallen. What would happen now to Sintikala, Kimimela, Tahtay, Enopay…to Cahokia?
He might never find out the answers.
His leg grew stronger and his bruises retreated gradually, but in the midafternoon when the pain in his limbs became unbearable, he would find his lips moving and realize that under his breath he was singing his death song.
—
They were coming upon the legionary camps from the west, and the wind was out of the east. The aromas of wood smoke and latrines, horses and leather were already in the air. The combination of smells was almost unbearably nostalgic to Marcellinus even amid the grimness of his thoughts.
The blue Oyo was to his right; he occasionally saw it sparkle through the trees in the sunlight. They were reaching the forest’s edge. The damp, fetid smell of the Roman camp grew even stronger.
Briefly Marcellinus dropped to one knee, his hand against a tree. His breath was becoming short, and he felt very alone. This was worse than walking into the Iroqua powwow.
His captors jerked the rope around his waist, almost pulling him over. Marcellinus pushed himself upright on his crutch and hurried on.
He looked up into the trees. This was a type of terrain he was familiar with from his long trek with the 33rd. And in the next few moments he would look upon a castra again, filled with Romans he did not know.
Nova Hesperia had been invaded once more. Marcellinus could almost smell the sharpness of Roman steel on the air.
All of a sudden, they were out of the forest.
This was not a natural clearing. Until recently this hill had been wooded. Now the trees were gone, excised near the ground so that even their stumps would provide little cover for a skulking Hesperian. The clearing reeked of their sap.
Their wood had been used to build one of the biggest fortresses Marcellinus had ever seen, down the gently sloping meadow and up the other side from where he stood, with a long view across the Oyo.
The fortress was much larger and more permanent-looking than he had anticipated. He was so stunned that it took him a full minute to notice the second, identical fortress a mile beyond it on the next hill.
Identical, that is, aside from a tall red and blue banner, etched in black with a stylized face, that hung from a high pole mounted in the center of the camp.
That banner accompanied the Imperator and was never flown unless he was present.
His heart began to race, hammering like a manic blacksmith. His breath came short. “Holy Jove. Futete…Gods help us all…”
Marcellinus had stopped in his tracks. Agrippa was walking his horse back, looking down his nose at him with an expression of patrician amusement. “Welcome to Roma, Gaius Marcellinus.”
“The imago of the Imperator,” said Marcellinus.
“Just so,” Agrippa said.
“His banner. The Imperator is here.”
Hadrianus III was personally leading the invasion of Nova Hesperia.
One more surprise like this and Marcellinus might lose his mind completely. “Why?” he asked. And then, suspiciously: “Who are you?”
Agrippa smiled at Marcellinus’s discomfiture. “Me? I am Lucius Flavius Agrippa, Praetor of the Legio XXVII Augusta Martia Victrix.” He leaned forward in the saddle. “Still keen to speak to my commanding officer, traitor?”
Marcellinus shook his head, still in shock.
“Come,” said Agrippa, and, mechanically, Marcellinus started walking again, down through the logged meadow toward the Roman fortresses.
—
Around and between the fortresses a mixed unit of Roman infantry and cavalry was exercising. The combined cohortes equitate of Marcellinus’s experience had consisted of six centuries of ground troops along with four turmae of thirty-two cavalrymen each, and it looked very much as if two such cohorts were drilling in mock battle against each other.
It was, Marcellinus knew, even more important to keep horsemen trained and drilled than it was for infantry; cavalry lost its edge more quickly. He wondered how many horses Hadrianus had brought with him. The Imperator certainly would have brought some dedicated cavalry units along with these.
The far hillside and the valley beyond were dotted with grazing animals. They were four-legged, but from the size of their heads and the length of their ears, Marcellinus knew them for mules.
To protect himself, the Imperator would have brought the strongest, most professional fighting legions he had available. Hard. Efficient. Used to winning against all odds.
Marcellinus cleared his throat. “Lucius
Agrippa?”
Agrippa’s horse was a fine white Arabian, a beast of a quality Marcellinus had not seen for ten years. From high on its back, Agrippa eyed him. “Gaius Marcellinus?”
“Which is the second legion?”
Agrippa made a negligent gesture toward the nearer of the two fortresses. “The Legio III Parthica. Glory days long past if you ask me, but a competent enough bunch for all that.”
“Very good.” Marcellinus nodded calmly. “Very good indeed.”
Inside, his thoughts were turbulent.
The Third Parthica had been raised by Septimius Severus in A.D. 197 for his Parthian campaign and then led by his son Geta in the civil war in which he had defeated and eventually killed his violent and unstable brother, Caracalla. The Third Parthians had gone from one victory to the next in the thousand years that followed and most recently had been one of the key legions on Hadrianus’s eastern front.
If the Third could be spared from Asia—and the Imperator, too!—at least the war against the Mongol Khan must be going well.
“And if you would: remind me about the 27th.”
Agrippa looked irritated. “The Augustan. Gemina, as was.”
“Ah, of course, from the Middle East. My apologies, Praetor. My memory is rusty.”
The Legio XXVII Augusta Martia Victrix had been formed much more recently, during Marcellinus’s lifetime. Two legions decimated in the wars against the Khwarezmian Sultanate and other Islamic powers had been merged into one by Titus Augustus, the first Imperator Marcellinus had served. They had been known initially as the Legio XXVII Gemina to mark their rebirth and two-legion heritage, but Titus Augustus had rededicated them after they had earned their laurels in their second successful campaign.
Another extremely professional legion, hardened in battle on unforgiving terrain.
Marcellinus blew out a long breath. The Third Parthian and the 27th Augustan? Could it be any worse? “Nova Hesperia isn’t going to know what hit it.”
“Quite,” Agrippa said.
“I liked Titus Augustus.”
Agrippa’s mouth crinkled. “Didn’t know him personally.”
“Your loss.”
“None of the men serving now knew him, either.” Agrippa smirked. “They’re too young.”
“Thanks a lot.” Some of the seasoned centurions probably did. The aquiliferi honor guard. Marcellinus wasn’t that old. He let it drop.
“And Gaius Marcellinus?”
“Lucius Agrippa?”
“Don’t try to befriend me. You’re still a traitor.”
Marcellinus raised his eyebrows. “So noted, sir.”
Two turmae of horse wheeled around their centuries at full gallop, lances up and maintaining perfect formation. Too far away to be sure, but those men looked like auxiliaries from central Europa or western Asia, Roma’s provinces with a strong equestrian tradition. Marcellinus could not help but wonder how Hesperian warriors—even well-trained squads such as the First Cahokian—would fare against the dazzling proficiency of elite horse units like this in a military action on an open field.
Soldiers emerged from the Westgate of the nearer fortress, marching in step. A full cohort of the Third Parthian, also drilling; once they were all on open ground, they quickly broke out into a battle line facing the mixed cohorts and began an advance-and-retreat exercise as the cohortes equitates hurriedly merged to defend against them with the infantry in the center and the cavalry flanking it.
The shouted orders of the centurions wafted on the breeze to Marcellinus and the others. Hadrianus kept his men sharp. From the rear fortress yet more men were coming forth in formation, a single century of what looked like Praetorian Guard from their height, impeccable bearing, and ornate oval shields. They were led by officers on four matched Persian horses and marched in a direct line toward Marcellinus and Agrippa.
Their centurion barked a single command. The Praetorians split neatly into two columns and parted to flow around Agrippa, Marcellinus, and the rest of the party.
Their escort turned and began its way back through the shallow valley to the second Roman fortress.
—
Entering the fortress of the XXVII Augusta Martia Victrix felt like being consumed. Marcellinus walked into the Southgate beneath the legionary signum of a rampant scarlet lion, through walls ten feet thick, and past immaculately dressed Roman sentries who watched them, expressionless.
The intervallum of the fortress was a flurry of activity. Centuries marched, loaded carts rumbled, individuals hurried right and left. Among the Romans Marcellinus spotted the occasional Hesperian: a Cherokee scout here, a Piscataway brave there.
Every Roman soldier not marching in drill stopped to stare as they passed. The news of Marcellinus’s capture had preceded him; these soldiers knew who he was and despised him. They understood how he had failed his men. Their antipathy made that abundantly clear.
Shaken, his soul heavy, Marcellinus looked around at the buildings and tried to distract himself.
All Roman fortresses had the same plan, and even after all these years he knew the layout of the streets around him better than he knew the map of Cahokia. Having entered through the Porta Praetoria, or Southgate, they were now walking up the Cardo with barrack blocks to their left and right. Soon they would pass the weapons workshops and stable buildings and come to the cross street that was always named the Via Principalis. Then the granaries would be to his left, the Praetorium to his right, and the Principia, or legionary headquarters building, directly ahead.
From the size and stature of the buildings this looked like a fortress that had stood for years. Yet it was all new, and the wood still smelled fresh.
At another order from their centurion most of the Praetorians wheeled aside. Just six men now flanked the Cahokian deputation, with Praetor Agrippa walking alongside.
They swung right and entered the Praetorium building.
—
“Lucius Flavius Agrippa, Gaius Publius Marcellinus: enter the presence of Imperator Hadrianus III,” said the Praetorian centurion with professionally repressed distaste toward Marcellinus’s name.
Marcellinus tried to take a deep breath, but his ribs were still painful from the punishment he had received on the top of Ocatan’s Temple Mound. He was to be given no time to prepare; apparently he would enter the Imperial presence just as he was, dirty, rank, and unshaven from the long journey from Ocatan.
The doors opened. Marcellinus limped forward into a large wooden hall with a plank floor and high windows, with Lucius Agrippa by his side and the Praetorian Guards dogging his heels.
The Imperator of the Roman world was a well-built man with curly hair wearing the armor and uniform of a Praetor with a purple sash in addition to denote his office. He had changed very little in the ten years since Marcellinus had seen him last. Accustomed to soldiers and now to braves who were outdoors in all weathers, Marcellinus thought that Hadrianus seemed baby-faced and pampered, slightly effete.
It was an illusion. Marcellinus knew that Hadrianus had a keen political brain and an iron will and was an excellent judge of character. He was a ruthless strategist in the corridors of Roma and on the fields of war. Underestimating him could be a fatal error.
“Hail, Caesar.” Agrippa saluted. “The navy of Calidius Verus did its job well. Ocatan is taken, the confluence secured. The cream of Ocatan’s warriors slain, the remainder enslaved. Minimal casualties to the Sixth. The Shappa Ta’atani fought well for us. Oh, and we captured Gaius Marcellinus.”
“Hail, Caesar,” Marcellinus said, and bowed.
“Ah, our rogue Praetor,” said the Imperator, and waited.
Marcellinus cleared his throat. “Six years ago, the 33rd Hesperian Legion fell in battle. I alone bear full responsibility for the loss of the men under my command.”
Above them the wind whistled in the eaves. Marcellinus heard terse commands out in the street and the regular tromp of marching feet. From somewhere in the distance came the clatter
of hammering.
“Perhaps you come to deliver to me the Eagle of your fallen legion?” the Imperator prompted.
“The Aquila of the 33rd is in Cahokia in safekeeping.” Marcellinus hesitated. “Perhaps I can bring it to you in due course.”
“Or perhaps I will go and fetch it myself,” Hadrianus said.
Agrippa grinned unpleasantly. Marcellinus kept his eyes lowered. “Just so, Caesar.”
The air around him felt brittle. Marcellinus waited.
“And so here we find you at last, Gaius Marcellinus, carving out your own private Imperium in Nova Hesperia. Building a little empire among the red men.”
Marcellinus stared at him, shocked beyond words. “What?”
Two Praetorians grabbed him, knocking his feet out from beneath him. Marcellinus fell forward onto his hands and knees and roared at the sudden blaze of pain through his injured leg.
“Sit up, man,” Agrippa said.
Marcellinus pushed himself back onto his knees as best he could, hands clamped around his thigh. He hoped the wound had not reopened.
“Well?” said the Imperator.
Marcellinus gritted his teeth. “No, Caesar. Building an empire for myself was the farthest thing from my thoughts. Never once did I consider it. Never.”
Hadrianus walked around him slowly, maintaining a distance of some six feet. Marcellinus was reminded of Avenaka’s predatory circling on Sintikala’s mound, taking his measure. “Really? Not even the glimmer of such an ambition?”
“Quite sure, Caesar.”
“Well, that seems beyond belief,” Agrippa said.
Marcellinus glowered up at him. “Because you’d have attempted it, in my place? You would have failed spectacularly.”
The Imperator completed his circuit and appeared in front of him again. “Now, now, Lucius. That matches what they said of him back in Roma. Praetor Gaius Marcellinus, a solid soldier and a good commander. Reliable. Loyal. Always the Imperator’s man.”
It had not occurred to Marcellinus that his record and reputation might count for anything. “Thank you, sir.”
Agrippa smiled lazily. “Gaius Marcellinus. Strong on tactics. Weak on strategy. Not a general of…long-term vision.”
