Eagle in Exile

by Alan Smale

  This, Marcellinus did not honor with a reply.

  “And that is one of the reasons I selected him for Nova Hesperia in the first place,” said the Imperator.

  “Because he was dispensable?” Agrippa asked.

  “Oh, tut, tut, Lucius Agrippa. That was not my meaning at all.” Hadrianus squatted down by Marcellinus and stared into his eyes, his expression icy. “None of my soldiers is dispensable.”

  Marcellinus swallowed. Clashing images warred in his mind: the men of the 33rd Hesperian falling under the liquid flame from Cahokian Thunderbirds, Ocatani warriors and ordinary townsfolk slain by the pila and gladii of the Sixth Ferrata.

  Pollius Scapax. Yahto. Hurit. Anapetu.

  “Your opinion, Gaius Marcellinus?”

  “I agree, Caesar. No one is dispensable.”

  “Although I must say that when I ordered you to deploy to Nova Hesperia, I did not expect you to take to the place with such…enthusiasm.”

  Marcellinus lowered his head.

  Hadrianus stood. “A long and somewhat distinguished life of service to the Imperium. You would say so?”

  “Yes, Caesar.”

  “And what services to the Imperium can you show me for your past six years on my behalf?”

  This was it. Marcellinus took a deep breath.

  Beyond anything else, he wished he did not have to give this speech on his knees.

  “I led the 33rd Hesperian against Cahokia and was defeated largely because of their use of Greek fire, delivered against my legion from the air. We had no way of defending ourselves from such an attack. I then led a final assault on the Great Mound of Cahokia, which was repulsed. I was captured and found myself stranded in Cahokia.”

  “ ‘Found yourself’?” Agrippa murmured.

  Marcellinus ignored him. “I alone was spared by the Cahokian paramount chief, to teach them my language. In time I also introduced various innovations, certain civilizing improvements to the city: a bathhouse and other structures of brick, wheelbarrows and wagons, progress with metals, a design for a waterwheel, and so forth. My motivation for doing this was to make Cahokia a worthy province for Roma.”

  Agrippa’s eyes narrowed. “A worthy province with a longship, Roman weaponry, siege engines?”

  All Marcellinus could do was brazen it out. “Yes. I have commanded Cahokian warriors in battle against their ancient enemy, the Five Tribes of the Iroqua. I have also helped them make a treaty of peace with those tribes, a treaty that currently holds. The Iroqua captured a longship from Roma, and Cahokia took it in battle. I used this ship to travel down the Mizipi to the southern sea a thousand miles distant and back again, and also up another river to the plains in the north and west.”

  The Imperator and Agrippa exchanged a quick glance, and Marcellinus realized that for the first time he had told them something they did not already know.

  “The plains,” Hadrianus said.

  “Quite the exciting life you have led,” Agrippa added.

  “And all in service of Roma,” said the Imperator somewhat ironically.

  “In original intent.” Marcellinus took a deep breath. “Although…”

  “Yes?”

  “Last year, far down the Mizipi, my longship was attacked by an expeditionary force from the Sixth Ironclads. We did not even know they were there until they attacked us. We defended ourselves. And although I myself did not draw Roman blood—”

  “Of course not.” Agrippa smirked.

  “You may consult their centurion, Manius Ifer, on that point. Nonetheless, blood was spilled. And after we defeated them, we let the survivors go free…But you knew of this.”

  Hadrianus was smiling tautly. “I know everything.”

  “Then you also know that had we been captured by the Sixth, it is probable that the Yokot’an Maya would have come to our aid. It appears that Calidius Verus has antagonized them.”

  “Verus can be a little ham-fisted at times.” Hadrianus cocked an eye at Marcellinus. “Anyway, yes, dispatches do eventually crawl up the coast to the Chesapica and then along the trail to me.”

  Marcellinus nodded. “Then you also read my letter? I prepared letters and sent them to the leaders of the Powhatani and Nanticoke people of the eastern shores.”

  “I received four copies. They are the sole reason you still live. Any other Imperator might have thrown you in chains already, or pulled your tongue out through the back of your head, or some other such unpleasantness.”

  Marcellinus nodded, temporarily lost for words.

  Agrippa stepped in. “However, the fact remains that you squandered your legion and then kept yourself alive at all costs. Raising a province for Roma, you say? Preposterous.”

  Marcellinus gave him a long look but addressed his words to the Imperator. “Cahokia—the whole of Nova Hesperia—can make a good trading partner for Roma. My legion is lost, but—”

  “Much worse than lost,” Agrippa said.

  Marcellinus glanced at him, suddenly fearful. “Worse?”

  “Oh, has no one told you yet? You and your legion have suffered the Damnatio Memoriae.”

  Marcellinus froze. Even his lips felt numb. “My legion? Damned?”

  The Damnatio wiped his legion from the lists, its name and number expunged as if it had never existed. If the name of the 33rd had been engraved on any monuments, it would have been chiseled out, and Marcellinus’s own name likewise, blacked out of any historical scroll or military record that once had contained it.

  Gaius Publius Marcellinus and the Legio XXXIII Hesperia had been removed from history.

  He might have expected such ignominy for himself. But his whole legion? Aelfric and the loyal tribunes, Scapax and the career centurions, the veterans of the aquiliferi, the thousands of good men under his command, all disgraced in death, their families robbed of their honor, military pensions, and perhaps even their property?

  “You’re lying,” Marcellinus said hoarsely.

  “Am I, now? The scrapings of the Imperial army, swept together into a legion of misfits and cowards who could not even survive the feeble peckings of these redskin savages—”

  Marcellinus hurled himself forward. His hands were fettered, but his shoulder crashed into Agrippa’s chest before the Praetor could even raise his hands in defense. Agrippa sprawled back across the floor. Marcellinus brought his head down, aiming for Agrippa’s nose, but the younger man jerked away and Marcellinus’s forehead smacked painfully into his collarbone. Both men shouted in pain.

  Marcellinus whipped his head up and caught Agrippa on the chin, snapping his teeth together onto his tongue. Blood spilled from Agrippa’s mouth, and he kicked upward, catching Marcellinus’s thigh wound.

  The Praetorian Guards seized Marcellinus and dragged him away. Agrippa got in a kick to his gut before they took him out of range, and then two more of the Imperator’s guards grasped Agrippa’s shoulders to pull him back.

  Marcellinus curled up and went limp. Hot anger still surged through him, but he hardly needed another beating.

  A boot went into his ribs, and another met his chest, and he howled in mixed rage and pain.

  “Enough!” The Imperator’s voice cut the air like a blade. “Desist.”

  Marcellinus turned his head and was gratified to see Agrippa still down, gasping for breath and staring at him with an expression of unblinking hatred.

  Hadrianus, in contrast, was smiling broadly. “Really, gentlemen. Guards, please lift my generals to their feet. Place them on couches ten feet apart. Stand over them to keep them there.”

  Clearly the Imperator was heartily amused. Marcellinus blew out a long breath as the Praetorians half dragged, half carried him to a couch and plunked him on it without ceremony.

  His ribs were not broken. It would have hurt more. Agrippa still had blood pouring from his mouth, and thank the gods, Marcellinus had done enough damage to his tongue to stop him from talking.

  “Caesar,” Marcellinus said once he had enough breath. “Re
peal the Damnatio, I beg you. Not for me. I accept all blame for the loss of the Fighting 33rd. I take their shame entirely onto my own head. But I beseech you to lift the Damnatio from the souls and memories of my men.”

  Hadrianus shook his head. “And this is the matter that concerns you most at this precise instant?”

  “Yes, Caesar.”

  Hadrianus stared, no longer smiling. The moment extended. Agrippa wiped his mouth on a napkin brought by one of the Praetorians and glared.

  The Imperator said: “Gaius Marcellinus, under some circumstances you might have died a hero. Since you inexplicably survived when your entire legion perished, there are serious charges leveled against you. You do understand this, yes?”

  “Yes, Caesar.”

  “Then tell me why I should not have you killed.”

  Marcellinus paused. “Because I have information. And because I might be able to make some helpful suggestions.”

  “Information?”

  “Not everyone in my legion perished,” Marcellinus said. “I heard that some four dozen survivors set out for Vinlandia. I do not know whether they made it. It appears a handful more may still live far up the Wemissori River to the west.” He chose not to mention Aelfric and Bjarnason. Let them make their own decisions.

  He waited. “Did they make it to Vinlandia?”

  “Never heard of them,” Hadrianus said.

  Agrippa was frowning. “And why did you not also try to make your way to Vinlandia?”

  “I judged my place was in Cahokia,” Marcellinus said levelly.

  “In the city where your legion was destroyed?”

  “Exactly so.”

  Agrippa spit into the napkin. “You are a dead man, Gaius Marcellinus.”

  “Only once I say so.” Hadrianus considered it. “You are extremely dirty, Gaius Marcellinus.”

  “I was not permitted the luxury of preparing myself,” Marcellinus said. “Caesar? The Damnatio?”

  “Good grief, man; mention that once more and I’ll kill you myself.” Hadrianus snapped his fingers, and the tallest of the Praetorians stepped forward. “Get this terrible specimen washed up. He stinks like a redskin. Bring a medicus to look at his leg. And for gods’ sakes, dress him like a Roman again even if it’s just for show.”

  —

  Escorted back to the Praetorium building two hours later wearing a simple Roman tunic, Marcellinus was ushered into a peristylium area, a small courtyard open to the sky surrounded by a portico of rough wooden columns. Hesperian sunflowers in pots marked the four corners of the square.

  At a table in the rear of the peristylium Hadrianus poured wine into a beaker and added water. He had thrown aside his purple sash of office and now unbuckled his breastplate one-handed as he drank. Beneath it he wore a tunic of fine Egyptian linen, a thin purple stripe on either side from shoulder to hem the only indication of his rank.

  Agrippa was not there. Marcellinus was alone with his Imperator. Just as he had never imagined he would address the assembled Haudenosaunee nation, he had hardly foreseen a private audience with the master of the Roman world. Once again he found himself in a situation for which he was ill prepared.

  The Imperator tossed his breastplate onto one of the low couches and stepped into the sunlight in the middle of the peristylium. “Thank the gods it’s getting a little warmer. The cold and damp of Martius and Aprilis here were quite unbearable.”

  None of the Imperator’s Praetorians were in evidence, not even a slave. In principle, if Marcellinus wished, he could leap on Hadrianus and attempt to strangle him.

  If the Imperator did not kill him first, that was. Hadrianus was a good seven years younger than Marcellinus and looked fit and healthy.

  But murder was not Marcellinus’s style or intent, and he was willing to bet that Praetorians stood hidden just a quick call away. He picked up the proffered beaker and swirled the watered wine.

  “It isn’t poisoned,” the Imperator said. “Please, sit.”

  Marcellinus took a sip. It was good wine.

  “So, no gold in this godsforsaken land?”

  Marcellinus unhooked the pouch at his belt and handed Hadrianus the golden birdman amulet. “This is the only piece I’ve laid my hands on the whole time I’ve been here, Caesar. The city of Shappa Ta’atan has a little, the traders at the Market of the Mud a little more. I think most of it comes up from the People of the Sun, the Yokot’an Maya, on the southern side of the gulf beyond the market, down where the Sixth Ironclads were stationed before they…came north.”

  Hadrianus grimaced and handed it back. “Hmmm. We’ll keep looking.”

  Marcellinus nodded and massaged the side of his neck. The tension of the day was beginning to make his head ache.

  “Agrippa insists that I kill you,” the Imperator said. “He believes you a dangerous complication to what is otherwise a rather simple military engagement.”

  He appeared to be awaiting Marcellinus’s reaction, but Marcellinus was tiring of games. “And yet I am not dead.”

  “I am hoping you are not entirely lost to us. That you might have some usefulness that would justify me keeping you alive. A man still passionate about the honor of his war dead…Well. Stirring stuff.”

  Marcellinus waited.

  “Also, I believe you may have amassed some influence in Cahokia despite your protestations of innocence.”

  “I am innocent of empire building,” Marcellinus said.

  Hadrianus tasted his wine again and nodded. “I am a pragmatic soul, Gaius Marcellinus. I don’t plan to spend the rest of my life in this abject wilderness, and so I need to do as expediency dictates and cut a corner now and then. You understand?”

  “Perhaps,” Marcellinus said, and then shook his head. “Actually, Caesar, I’m not sure that I do.”

  “I need Cahokia,” the Imperator said bluntly. “Can you deliver it to me?”

  Marcellinus blinked. “No, Caesar.”

  “I need grain, and I need gold. And then I will need flight. Cahokia has all of these things.”

  “Gold, I cannot promise you. Grain…well, there may be some scope for negotiation.”

  “So you do have some pull with these people?”

  Marcellinus breathed deeply. “Caesar, I believe Cahokia—perhaps the entirety of Nova Hesperia—should govern itself as an ally and trading partner to Roma. I believe this would be in the best interests of Roma as well as the Mizipian people. And I am prepared to justify that statement at whatever length you have time for.”

  Hadrianus stared. “You think I should pay for my grain like a merchant? That I have crossed the Atlanticus for commerce?”

  “No, Caesar. Just that—”

  The Imperator raised his hand. “I require Cahokia’s complete submission, and I require it immediately. If they lay down arms and surrender their city and their grain, I am prepared to be lenient. If they resist…well, by now the lesson of Ocatan should have sunk home.

  “Gaius Marcellinus, I believe you may be able to persuade them of the futility of opposing Roma. If not, you are of no further use to me. Well? Will Cahokia surrender?”

  “No, Caesar.”

  “Even if the alternative is their complete eradication?” Hadrianus said, and Marcellinus had to stifle a shiver at how casually the Imperator said the words.

  “Well,” he said. “Naturally, that’s hard to answer.”

  “Answer it,” the Imperator said.

  Marcellinus frowned and took an extended sip of his wine.

  The Imperator Hadrianus III was a cunning man and a good reader of other men. For all his apparent collegiality, he obviously was talking to Marcellinus only in the hope that he could be of use.

  In a moment of clarity, Marcellinus realized two things. The first was that attempting to pull the wool over this man’s eyes would be suicide. If he attempted to lie, the Imperator was smart enough to detect it; he had been surrounded for over a decade by the best dissemblers in Roma and beyond. Marcellinus needed to take this
man very seriously.

  Second, there had to be much more to this than met the eye. Yes, all Imperators—all leaders—were obsessed with money, food, territory, and control. When Marcellinus was the Praetor of a legion marching across Nova Hesperia, most of his waking thoughts had been about gold, supplies, and discipline. But Marcellinus had been ordered to come here. Hadrianus had come entirely of his own accord despite having competent generals he could have sent instead.

  Hesperia—perhaps even Cahokia—was critically important to Hadrianus. And Marcellinus had no idea why.

  “And hurry,” said the Imperator, “because your friends are on their way.”

  “My friends, Caesar?”

  “It appears that the locals travel faster than Lucius Agrippa and his mules.”

  Marcellinus struggled to bite back his impatience. “Who is coming?”

  Hadrianus stared, his eyes bleak once more. Marcellinus hurriedly dropped his gaze. “My apologies for my tone, Caesar. I was…startled. You say that envoys are coming from Cahokia?”

  “Yes, indeed. Two days ago a lone savage showed up at the gates under a white flag with an epistle written on deerskin parchment by Tahtay of Cahokia. A chieftain there?”

  Marcellinus’s heart surged. “Yes, Caesar, the paramount chief of Cahokia.”

  “The letter informed me that Tahtay wished to come and talk with me, with some of his village elders in tow, if I would guarantee his safety. Of course, I assured the messenger that I would.”

  “And when do they arrive, Caesar?”

  The Imperator smiled thinly. “Today, Gaius Marcellinus. Today.”

  “Great Juno,” Marcellinus said.

  “And that is why I thought it advisable to give you a bath. I would not want you to stink worse than they do and embarrass me.”

  “No, Caesar.”

  “And so you will assist me in this little conversation to ensure that Cahokia surrenders. Yes?”

  Dry-mouthed, Marcellinus said, “Yes, Caesar. I will.” His forehead creased. What on earth was he going to do?

  “Good.” The Imperator led the way to the edge of the courtyard and then stopped and turned. “And Gaius Marcellinus?”