by Alan Smale
“I heard it differently.” The Imperator patted his horse and allowed it to be led away by his adjutant. Behind them, the imago was being raised slowly to its full height.
Tahtay frowned. “Nonetheless, the 27th is too close. Its castra has been far too close all winter. Cahokia still hates Roma for what it did to Ocatan and for being here at all. And in their turn, the troops of the 27th hate Cahokia for slaying the Wanageeska’s legion. I have told you this many times, and still Agrippa’s legion occupies a castra a mile south of my Great Plaza.”
“Yes, yes,” Hadrianus said impatiently.
Decinius Sabinus cleared his throat. “We have discussed this before, Tahtay. Roma must control both sides of the river. We must have easy access to our supply train and good communications with our garrison at Mare Chesapica. We must be able to address threats from the east and south should any emerge.”
“Threats?” Tahtay shook his head.
Hadrianus stretched his legs and back. “Marcellinus?”
Reluctantly, Marcellinus nodded. “Roma must patrol. We must be able to send parties to Ocatan and beyond without having to continuously ferry cohorts back and forth across the Mizipi.”
“Roma cannot have just a depot on one side of the river and ten thousand men on the other,” Sabinus added. “It is a matter of simple logistics.”
“Then have them make camp farther away,” Tahtay said.
“A day’s march south,” Chenoa added. “Not a step closer.”
Hadrianus glanced at Sabinus and Marcellinus. “We will discuss it again. But…” He shrugged.
“And the four-legs?” Chenoa prompted.
Tahtay nodded. “She speaks of your stinking mules. Your horses I can tolerate, but the mules?” He made a sour face.
“They are fewer now,” the Imperator pointed out. “We moved the bulk of the mules down to our fortress on the Oyo, near Ocatan. You requested this of me, Tahtay, and I did as you asked. And the more corn we receive from you and the more buffalo we can hunt, the smaller our supply train needs to be.”
Sabinus nodded. “As trust grows between our peoples, perhaps we will be willing to consider further concessions.”
Tahtay’s eyebrows were already raised. “You speak of growing trust in a week when our peoples have been spear to spear in open war?”
“A brawl is not a war,” Marcellinus said.
There was a long silence. Tahtay still stared at Hadrianus. “I believe you have heard me, Caesar.”
“I have heard you, Tahtay of Cahokia. And I believe we should talk more, you and I, when we have buried our dead and the air between us is cooler. I mean this. I would welcome a closer understanding between us.”
Tahtay nodded brusquely and turned away, with the other Cahokians at his heels. Sabinus tutted at the informality of the Cahokian contingent. Tahtay’s behavior bordered on criminal disrespect when viewed from a Roman perspective, but Hadrianus no longer seemed to notice.
“May we talk with you more?” Sabinus inquired.
The Imperator either raised his eyes to heaven or checked the position of the sun. It was not clear which. “If you will allow me a few moments to find myself a tunic that does not reek, and some meat…”
—
“Tahtay is right, of course, Caesar,” said Marcellinus, and Sabinus shot him a reproachful look.
Hadrianus, now freshly bathed, wearing a tunic and cloak, and lying on a couch in his Praetorium, put his hand over his eyes to mimic fatigue. “If you say so, Gaius Marcellinus. But it’s really all moot, is it not? The dead are still dead.”
Sabinus cleared his throat again, an irritating habit that served as a prelude to whatever he was about to say. “If you will permit…? We should like to broach an issue connected to our…more distant enemies.”
The Imperator inclined his head.
“We have a proposal, Gaius Marcellinus and myself.”
“Gaius Marcellinus,” Hadrianus said sardonically. “Why do I feel no surprise? Very well, Decinius Sabinus. Speak your mind.”
“Our experiences in Asia have made us well aware of the pace at which the Mongols can advance. Their lightning raids into our territories, their sudden appearance outside the walls of cities from Hangzhou to Samarkand and beyond.”
The Imperator waved his hand to speed Sabinus along. Of the three of them, Hadrianus was surely the most keenly aware of the threat posed by the Mongol Khan. Sabinus nodded. “Here above all, we cannot afford surprises. Once over the western mountains, a Mongol strike force might then cross the Plains and be at our doorsteps in as little as twenty days.”
“That would be a considerable feat,” the Imperator objected. “We cannot think that they would know the terrain between the mountains and the Mizipi with sufficient accuracy to aim an arrow at our hearts in such a way.”
“With local help they may,” Marcellinus said. “Hesperian trails are too faint for Roman eyes to easily see but are well traveled by their traders. And despite our growing Roman presence on the Plains, a small Mongol force might slip between our troops and evade detection until dangerously close.”
The Imperator stood and padded across the room on bare feet to pour himself more wine and water, though more water than wine, as was his custom. Marcellinus could almost see his sharp mind working, the wheels turning like linked cogs in a grain mill.
Sabinus took a deep breath. “Gaius and I propose a line of forts across the Grass and other arrays of forts up each of the major rivers, as far as they can go and be reasonably maintained. And, Caesar, we need to establish these lines as a matter of urgency.”
Hadrianus glanced at Marcellinus, then back to the Praetor of the Third. “Forts? Nova Hesperia is a large land, gentlemen.”
“Signal stations, rather. Smaller and much farther apart than the forts along our borders in Europa.” Marcellinus stood and held out his arm. “Consider my body as the Mizipi, Caesar, with Cahokia around here.” He pointed to his heart. “The Wemissori flows in from the west along my right arm, and is thoroughly patrolled. The Braided River flows into the Wemissori, perhaps here at my elbow. To the north of the Wemissori, here above my arm, between the Blackfoot and the Hidatsa and our own ships on patrol, we need fear no surprise. Down here at my waist the Kicka River flows into the Mizipi just below Shappa Ta’atan, and farther down the Mizipi the Red River comes in at perhaps the height of my knee. Thus, since Roma controls the Mizipi, it is this expanse to the west between my knee and shoulder that concerns us. This represents a north-south distance of some six or seven hundred miles. Now extend this westward.” He drew a vertical line in the air an arm’s length to his right. “A line of signal stations in the middle of the Grass, five hundred miles from the Mizipi and seven hundred miles long. At a separation of twenty miles, we would need just thirty-five stations.”
“Any station that detects a Mongol incursion ignites a signal fire,” said Sabinus. “The signal travels along the line to the nearest river, and then along the river to the Mizipi. Thus, whenever the Mongols approach, we learn about it promptly in Cahokia.”
“Wood is sparse in many areas on the Plains,” Marcellinus said. “The establishment of such signal stations will draw attention from the People of the Grass, the Pawnee and others. And while they have not yet been aggressive toward our legions, a permanent presence is a much different undertaking than the passage of our scouts or the temporary exercising of our horsemen.”
Sabinus nodded. “We might even request—purchase—their assistance in building and staffing the signal stations.”
“Perhaps.” Marcellinus was dubious on this point. The People of the Grass might well agree to such a thing, but the chances of them treating the duty with the seriousness the Romans would expect seemed slim. “If so, with Romans and Hesperians billeted in smaller units, it could facilitate a better understanding between Roma and the native population. An understanding that will help us when it comes to war with the Khan.”
“Or the redskins may just kill
the legionaries in their sleep,” said Hadrianus.
Marcellinus nodded calmly. “Or vice versa, of course. But I prefer to think positively.”
“Very well.” The Imperator drained his beaker of wine. “Bold but striking. Let us consider this further.”
Sabinus glanced at Marcellinus. “I believe we would be best served by assigning the leading role to the 27th Augustan.”
Amused, the Imperator turned to him. “The 27th make better guards, perhaps? Due to their excessive alertness and aggression?”
“The 27th needs something to do,” Marcellinus said bluntly. “Something other than making trouble with Roma’s allies.”
Hadrianus’s eyes narrowed. “You would say this to Agrippa’s face?”
“Of course. I have said far worse. Praetor Sabinus here runs a tight ship. The Third works well with Cahokia, with the Cherokee, with the People of the Grass. But Agrippa’s contempt for the Hesperians has propagated down through his chain of command. This threatens the peace in Cahokia and constitutes an unacceptable distraction from what Roma is here to achieve.”
The Imperator was eyeing him glacially. Marcellinus had overstepped his bounds again, speaking too forcefully. But this time he chose not to lower his gaze. “I therefore concur with Praetor Sabinus that establishing a Line of Hadrianus across the grasslands would be an excellent task for the 27th Augusta Martia Victrix.”
The Imperator looked from one man to the other with dark amusement. “I detect a certain similarity of tone between you. Whose idea was this originally, gentlemen?”
“The full scheme was arrived at jointly. The original idea, I believe, was Marcellinus’s.”
Marcellinus shook his head. “Praetor Sabinus made the original suggestion. I helped flesh it out with some pertinent details.”
“Gaius Marcellinus is too modest,” Sabinus said.
Marcellinus bowed his head. If it was anybody’s idea, it was Sintikala’s. It was she who had seeded the concept of a long line of signal stations into Marcellinus’s mind many winters earlier, when it was Roma’s arrival and advance that had formed the overriding threat.
“I know more of the Mongols. Marcellinus knows more of Nova Hesperia. It took both of us.”
The Imperator stalked back and forth across the floor of the Praetorium deep in thought, tapping the rim of the beaker against his lip. Marcellinus and Sabinus sat calmly, not meeting each other’s eyes.
Eventually, the master of the Roman world stopped, picked up the jug of wine, and came to serve his guests.
“A Line of Hadrianus.” The Imperator grinned. “Something of a historical precedent, I feel.”
“Indeed, Caesar.”
“Very well, gentlemen. With the mustering of whatever redskin support is feasible and safe, we will deploy the 27th Augustan into the Grass. Decinius Sabinus, I trust you will not feel slighted if I assign the initial planning and logistics for this adventure to Gaius Marcellinus. We two, and Agrippa, will obviously supervise this at a high level.”
“On the contrary,” said Sabinus. “Not unlike the 27th, Marcellinus clearly needs something to do. It would be a splendid use of his…talents.”
Marcellinus nodded wryly. He should have seen that coming. Under Imperator Hadrianus, no good deed went unpunished.
And the logistics for this would certainly be a substantial effort. Perhaps he should pay another call on Kanuna and Enopay. The Imperator was not the only man who could delegate.
Of course, the secret of the Mongol presence in Nova Hesperia could not keep forever. In the Roman month of Julius, known locally as the Heat Moon, when the humidity had built to an almost unbearable degree and the mosquitoes were at their height and the Concordia got back from its latest trip up the Wemissori, the dam broke. It was as if the gigantic continent had suddenly become too small to contain all the warring nations within it.
—
Two new waterwheels had been installed in Cahokia Creek in the springtime. On hearing of the project over dinner one evening, Decinius Sabinus had offered to lend the city some Roman carpenters and engineers to speed the work along—an efficient flour milling operation was in everyone’s interest—but Tahtay and Marcellinus had declined out of pride. The millstones and runner stones, the wooden gearing, and the millhouses that kept the enterprise safe from storms were entirely products of Cahokian craftsmanship, as overseen by Marcellinus, and they were inordinately proud of them.
Marcellinus’s brickworks and steelworks had been largely staffed by men and boys. Likewise, when he had refurbished the Concordia in the Longhouse of the Ship his craftsmen had been predominantly male. The mills were a very different matter. In Cahokia, women ground the corn, women had very strong opinions about how the flour mills should work, and once the mills were operational, they were run entirely by women and girls.
So it was that when the Concordia returned, Marcellinus was helping to fine-tune the third and largest waterwheel with several dozen Cahokian women, with not a single other man in sight. It had to be said that he was enjoying the change of pace and picking up some interesting Cahokian vocabulary to boot, as the women were unblushingly specific on many topics Marcellinus previously had given little thought to. Nahimana was there, hobbling in some pain from her hip but nonetheless bossing the other women around with a proficiency and profanity that any centurion would envy.
Even Kangee was on the team, in a brief truce with Marcellinus that might not extend as far as a smile but at least allowed a measure of neutral conversation. And it was Kangee who first looked up and said, “Big canoe.”
Marcellinus wiped the sweat from his face. Sure enough, the Concordia was nosing its way up the creek, with Akecheta at the helm and eight rather fierce-looking Blackfoot warriors standing at the prow, staring out with expressions of almost religious awe.
Marcellinus turned to try to see it through their eyes. After all these years he had grown so used to Cahokia’s Great Mound that he had stopped seeing it for what it was: a monumental earthwork, an incredible engineering feat. A hundred feet tall, a thousand feet across at the base, it contained millions of cubic feet of earth and must have taken countless years of dedicated effort to construct. The three giant launch rails that ran parallel up its northern slope also might inspire awe. For that matter, the Longhouse of the Thunderbirds at the foot of the mound and the Longhouse of the Wings at its crown were probably the largest buildings the Blackfoot had ever seen. And beyond all that was the steelworks, puffing gouts of heavy smoke into the skies that drifted away over the bluffs. It was a shame the Raven clan and its Roman apprentices did not also have a Sky Lantern or two floating above the scene to complete the effect.
As the Concordia pulled in at the Longhouse of the Ship, Napayshni stepped out with the rope to moor the drekar. He still limped from the wound he had received fighting the Panther clan of the Shappa Ta’atani years before. The rowers shipped their oars and stood to stretch their weary arms and shoulders.
A lone brave was racing down the rearward slope of the Great Mound. From his fleetness of foot and his red sash, Marcellinus knew it was Tahtay. As soon as they caught sight of him, the Blackfoot warriors whooped and vaulted out of the longship to sprint toward him. They moved astonishingly fast despite the cloying humidity of high summer.
Now Marcellinus could see two Blackfoot elders sitting more sedately in the stern, and alongside them the stooped figure of the headman of the Hidatsa, the chieftain who two years earlier had permitted them to go on the Plains buffalo hunt that had led them to Tahtay. The headman’s price for this assistance had been to see the Great City before he died, and Cahokia paid its debts. Beside him stood Sooleawa, the buffalo caller of the Hidatsa, in her elk-skin dress and hair band of buffalo hide, her loose black hair blowing freely in the Hidatsa style.
Now they stepped ashore, moving their heads back and forth almost comically. They resembled nothing so much as Roman farmers from the sticks stepping into the marbled Forum for the first time.
> Tahtay and the Blackfoot warriors met halfway between the foot of the mound and Cahokia Creek, and an involuntary dance of glee broke out. Marcellinus smiled. Tahtay had grown so serious since the Romans had arrived. Even with Taianita and Dustu often by his side, he had so few friends that it was a joy to see him with his Fire Heart brothers.
However, when Tahtay summoned Marcellinus just after the evening meal, his face was stony enough to grind corn. Marcellinus walked into the war chief’s house on the flat top of the Mound of the Sun to find Tahtay sitting with Enopay, Taianita, Dustu, and the Blackfoot warriors and elders around a mess of bowls of corn, fish bones, hazelnut cakes, and tea. The Blackfoot warriors studied Marcellinus intently, their elders ignored him, Taianita lolled back frowning, and Enopay wouldn’t meet his eye at all.
Marcellinus was wearing a Cahokian tunic. Tahtay shook his head. “Dress in your Roman clothes. We go to Hadrianus.”
“Now, Tahtay? Why?”
Tahtay stared at him with dead eyes. “There is trouble in the west. Fetch your Roman tunic and cloak and come back.”
Marcellinus drew himself up and saluted. “Yes, sir.”
Something was very wrong. The Blackfoot had brought news, and it was not good.
—
Romans ate later in the evening than Cahokians did, and the Imperator and Praetors dined even later than their men, and so Marcellinus and the others arrived at the Praetorium building of the Third Parthica to find Hadrianus still at table. Tahtay requested entry courteously enough, his face now more sad than angry.
They were just three: Tahtay, Taianita, and Marcellinus. A fourth, a Blackfoot friend of Tahtay’s, had helped paddle the canoe the half mile across the Mizipi, but he had stayed with the boat. None of the Hesperians had spoken to Marcellinus during the journey, and he felt very much at a disadvantage as they were ushered into the Imperial presence by a Praetorian in full armor. He was surprised that Tahtay had brought only Taianita and discomfited that the war chief had not included Sintikala, Chenoa, or Kanuna, Cahokians with far more gravitas.
