by Alan Smale
Marcellinus released Chochokpi, and the man scurried off. The decurion pointed and walked toward the gate. Marcellinus hurried to join him on the walls of Yupkoyvi.
The cloud of dust approached, its contents indistinct, and then all of a sudden the Mongol squadron rode out of it as it reached the harder ground close to Yupkoyvi.
It was Marcellinus’s first view of a Mongol force of any kind. His first impression was that they looked dirty and were dressed in a bewildering variety of styles.
As in all barbarian armies, no two men looked the same. Some wore leather armor, others what looked like quilted hide coats that might afford quite a bit of protection against a blade or an arrow. Some sported chain mail in the Roman style, perhaps captured in battle with Roma on the other side of the world. A few rode bare-chested with only a small round shield for protection or what looked like a silken shirt with no armor at all.
The men looked compact and strong. Some already wore their helmets, which were trimmed with fur and had leather flaps. Those who didn’t seemed to wear their hair in two braids, one at each side of the head, but with the scalp in between shaved bare. It gave them an oddly unsettling look.
Their famed Mongol warhorses were unimpressive at first sight: short and thick-necked with shaggy manes and distended bellies. Yet those horses were the secret of the Mongols’ success, with their legendary speed across the steppes of central Asia and their agility and stamina in battle.
“Two hundreds,” Enopay said.
“You’re sure?”
“One hundred Mongol warriors makes up a jaghun. I see many more than one hundred men but surely fewer than three hundreds. If Mongol squadrons travel in centuries, I mean in jaghuns, two hundreds of men may be all we face here.”
Marcellinus looked down at him. “All?”
“Before it looked like many more because of the spare horses kicking up dust. Two hundred is far better than a thousand. But yes, enough to be a challenge.”
“Damn it,” Bassus said.
“What? What do you see?”
“Back corner, tall Mongol warrior with the bright yellow armor? Those are thick leather plates, not copper or gold…but that must be Jebei Noyon, one of the Khan’s trusted generals. They call Jebei the Arrow because…well, the story isn’t clear, but some say he shot Chinggis Khan with an arrow once, before his Tayichiud tribe was conquered and he threw in his lot with the Khan.” Bassus looked at Marcellinus. “He’s tough. But he only has a couple hundred men.”
“Whereas we have…shit.”
Behind them women and children were running out of the Great House with armfuls of spears and arrows, dumping them onto the ground in the center of the plaza, and running back in. The men of Yupkoyvi were picking up spears, thrusting them forward experimentally, muttering at one another. Not one of them was wearing armor.
“Sweet Cybele,” Bassus said. “This isn’t happening.”
“No shields,” Enopay said. “Oh, at least they’ve found some bows now to go with the arrows. Um. See those men on the other side of the plaza, sneaking down the ladders into the kiva?”
Bassus turned back to Marcellinus. “Fuck these jokers; we’re wasting time. We can’t fortify this shit without concerted Handie support. Which we’re not getting. It’d be the most pathetic siege ever. So out we go.”
Marcellinus gave in to the inevitable. “Agreed. We ride out and take our chances.”
Bassus eyed him. “You’re no cavalryman, Gaius Marcellinus. I command this action. Yes?”
Cavalry tactics were not infantry tactics. Marcellinus had fought alongside cavalry wings as a centurion in Galicia-Volhynia and even commanded a mixed cohort as a tribune against the Khwarezmian Sultanate, but those battles were long ago, and today’s action would be a purely mounted affair. Sextus Bassus had trained for this all his life. “Absolutely. Your men, your command.”
—
“Isleifur Bjarnason. You’re still here?”
Bjarnason frowned as Marcellinus drew near. “Where else would I be?”
“Anywhere.” Marcellinus put his mouth near the Norseman’s ear. “Don’t die here. Disappear.”
“Run away?”
“Yes. Get clear, get word back to Cahokia of what happened here. If we all die today, the Imperator learns nothing and all of this was for naught.”
Startled, Bjarnason glanced around at the Mongol force before them and the cliffs behind. “Escape how? Tunnel? I’m not a magician.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. Get going. Don’t tell me how you plan to do it.”
“That should be easy enough.” The Norseman looked around again and shook his head. “I haven’t a bloody clue.”
“Get one.” Marcellinus clapped the man on the shoulder and climbed back to rejoin Enopay atop the front wall.
If anyone could find a way to survive this day, it was the Norseman. But even for him it might be a tough call.
Beneath them, Bassus was caucusing with his decurions and their deputies. “We’ll need to close quickly to negate their arrow storm. Dirty bastards only fight hand to hand when they have no choice. They’d rather sit back and let their arrows do the fighting. So we won’t give ’em that luxury. Full charge, break through their line, then wheel and mop ’em up.”
His officers nodded grimly. All knew it could not be so simple. Bassus looked irritated. “Buck up. With our spears we’ve got the longer reach in the charge. Our horses are bigger than the scruffy-shit ponies the Mongols ride. And our spathas are longer than their sabers. All advantages to Roma, gentlemen.”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
That was all true. And with their steel helmets and greaves, breastplates and chain mail, the Roman auxiliaries were better armored than the Mongols.
But the Mongols had speed and agility on their side and outnumbered them almost two to one.
Bassus clapped his hands to get the attention of all the men. “Squadron, listen up. First Turma leads the charge, dense wedge formation.” He winked. “You’ll need to ride hard to keep up with me. Death or glory, eh, boys? Second and Third Turmae follow us in echelon, left and right, flying wedge, but for Cybele’s sake, adjust your position according to how the fucking Mongols react. And listen up! Follow your decurions! Not like the last time against the Iroqua, you bastards. That was a fiasco. You embarrassed your stupid selves. So pay attention while I say it again: follow your fucking decurions.”
He turned. “Fourth Turma, hold fast in reserve. Rest up to start. Then pile in wherever we need help or you see an opportunity to break ’em. Try to take out Jebei Noyon if you can. Mongols lose their fucking minds if you kill whoever’s telling them what to do. Not like you, though, eh? If I fall, you’ll keep fighting.”
Bassus turned back to the Third. “And Third Turma? God’s sake, this time thrust and don’t slash. You’re not gladiators putting on a show. Kill ’em clean, kill ’em quick. I’ll be watching you from the field or from hell. Questions?”
Predictably, there were none.
“Saddle up, then.” Now Bassus looked up at Marcellinus. “Close the gates behind us, but be ready to let us back in after. Keep trying to marshal this Handie rabble to defend themselves just in case we don’t crush the enemy for you right out of the gate.”
Marcellinus nodded. “Good luck, Decurion. Give them ten kinds of shit.”
Bassus smiled, his mouth a thin line. “Ten kinds it is. Rip apart any of the bastards we miss.”
“Consider it done.”
Decurion Sextus Bassus blew out a long breath and then inhaled again. “And thank the gods for some action at last. I was getting so fucking bored in this town.”
“Weren’t we all?” Marcellinus smiled wryly.
Bassus made a clicking noise, and his horse raised its head and walked toward him. The decurion stepped into the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle in a single movement. He nodded once at Marcellinus, looked around him at the Great House with an expression of withering disgust, and trotted o
ff to take the head of his formation.
“He’s dead,” Enopay said hollowly. “And he…He knows we’re all dead, too. Doesn’t he, Eyanosa?”
Marcellinus looked down at the boy. Time for his own lesson in bravado. “Don’t talk nonsense, Enopay. Grab yourself a sword, stand tall, and keep your eyes open. Stay by me. And remember: ten kinds of shit.”
Enopay wiped the sweat out of his eyes and tried to calm his breathing. “Sir, yes, sir.”
“We still have the air advantage,” Marcellinus said. “The Yupkoyvi have dozens of Macaws. The Mongols won’t be expecting that.”
“We hope,” Enopay said.
The cornicen sounded his horn, and the cavalry of the Second Aravacorum poured out of the main gates of the Great House of Yupkoyvi and onto the field of battle.
—
No amateurs at war, the Mongols had stopped to prepare. They were changing horses, climbing onto fresh mounts, dropping their packs to the ground, and tying the bridles of their spare horses together so that they could not roam far while their masters were in battle. Marcellinus saw no orders being given, could not tell which were their squadron commanders, could no longer see Jebei Noyon. The Mongol army was just a solid mass of cavalry that was only now forming up into ranks.
Outside the gates of Yupkoyvi the Roman cavalry had quickly fallen into formation. The First Turma formed a tight triangular formation with Sextus Bassus shouting profane orders from its apex. Behind them on either side spread the Second and Third Turmae. The cavalry advanced out into the battlefield at a brisk walk.
Per orders, the Fourth waited in reserve just outside the wall. Their decurion paced back and forth in front of them. Marcellinus knew that commanding reserves was sometimes harder than being in the first wave. To see your comrades already in the fray and be helpless, knowing you might be ordered into the thickest and most desperate part of the fighting at any moment…he had always hated it. And the decurion of the Fourth looked very nervous as well as very young.
The Mongols were already advancing in a long double line. Without doubt they’d begin the battle with a cloud of arrows, wave upon wave, designed to kill as many as possible and shatter their enemy’s resolve.
Marcellinus doubted that ploy would work here. Bassus was a tough commander with enough resolve to spare for everyone.
Now the Mongol front line parted neatly, dividing into two halves with a space left between them. Through the space from behind came six Mongols at the gallop, riding shoulder to shoulder. Their synchronization alone was quite a feat on such rocky terrain. Among the Roman troops, only the Chernye Klobuki could possibly have ridden in such a steady formation at such a savage gallop.
Then something large reared up behind the six horsemen, and Marcellinus understood.
A dozen years earlier he would have thought it was a kite. Now he knew better. “Futete…”
The Mongol craft climbed into the sky at an almost uncanny angle. The cord that joined it to the galloping Mongol horsemen was too fine to see except where the sun glinted off it. The craft’s wing was broad and predatory, with a span about equal to that of a Cahokian Eagle but with a raw and jagged sawtooth shape to its trailing edge quite different from any Mizipian aerial craft. The apex of the wing came to a sharp point, making it appear to skewer the air as it flew. The craft had a long tail, indeed a little like a kite except that this tail was rigid and curved. Both the wings and the tail were etched with red and orange paint, making them glow in the desert sun.
Marcellinus recognized the stylized shape. It was supposed to represent the firebird from Slavic and Asian folklore, similar to the phoenix of Greek myth. The symbol still had power as far east as the Mongol lands. But they surely had not learned the trick of flight back home. The Hesperians of the western coasts must have possessed flight after all, and the Mongols had taken it for their own, adapting the craft to their own favored shapes and aspects.
Three men hung beneath the Mongol Firebird in a line, one behind the other, so closely that they almost overlapped. Mahkah shaded his eyes with his hand and squinted. “The first man holds a bar of wood to steer. The second carries a bow and also cords that lead to…sacks under the wings. The third pulls taut four ropes that attach to the back of the wings. As he tugs them, it changes the curve of the wing. To help direct the bird?” Mahkah shook his head. “Sintikala would understand.”
The details hardly mattered. “Damn them,” Marcellinus said.
Roma’s biggest advantage over the Mongols had just disappeared. The two sides might be much more evenly matched than the Imperator had hoped. However, the prospect of Marcellinus’s expeditionary force surviving to take this news back to Hadrianus seemed slim.
A thousand feet up in the air, the Mongol Firebird finally loosed its cable; the lead pilot reached forward to unhook it manually. The six horsemen who had towed it aloft wheeled away to the right and left and slowed to a canter as they went to rejoin their fellows.
The Firebird soared over the walls of the Great House, still rising, picking up more lift from the heat of the sun on the desert sands as well as the breeze that blew against the cliff.
“Shit,” Taianita said. “Cowards…”
As one, the Macaws that had whirled over their heads were retreating for the safety of the cliff tops. Like a raptor terrorizing smaller birds, fear of the Firebird had banished all the Macaws from the air in a single stroke. “Pezi! Tell Chochokpi to order the Macaws back aloft! A single Mongol bird cannot possibly threaten all of them!”
But Marcellinus did not wait for a response. Even while Pezi was bellowing the translation at the Yupkoyvi chief, the Roman ran to the ladder down to the plaza of the Great House.
From directly above came a bright flash and a resounding thunderclap, as if a storm had just appeared over them. Marcellinus’s boot slipped off the rung of the ladder, and he swung sideways, banging his shoulder on the sunbaked clay of the wall. He felt Taianita grab at his foot and guide it back onto the ladder.
Hot shards rained down around them, clinking as they landed on the roof beside him. With a dazed realization, Marcellinus saw they were slivers of porcelain.
A Jin thunderclap bomb had exploded in the air above them. From his discussions with the other Praetors back in Cahokia, Marcellinus knew that the thunderclap bombs contained the explosive Jin salt and sharp fragments of potsherds, all wrapped in a shell of stiff paper. Those were the small black powder bombs: the much larger and heavier thunder crash bombs were encased in iron, probably too heavy to haul aloft.
Fluttering down around him now were scarlet feathers.
“The Mongol bird just blew up a Macaw Warrior,” Taianita said. “Blew up.”
The Firebird streaked over them. Another explosion came, this time from the top of the sandstone cliff, hurling two Macaws into the sky. The wings and their pilots toppled untidily down the cliff to the canyon floor.
“Holy Jove,” Marcellinus said. “Holy fucking Jove…”
—
The two mounted squads approached each other across the rocky ground of the Yupkoyvi canyon.
The Mongols had broken into five lines, each of around forty horsemen, some well armored in steel and carrying lances, others the nimbler, more lightly equipped horse archers. All five ranks came forward at the trot.
As Mahkah again arrived at Marcellinus’s side, a single arrow arced high over the army, squealing in the air. “Whistling arrow,” Marcellinus said.
On the signal, the first rank of horse archers whipped their horses into a gallop, and suddenly arrows were flying.
The Mongols were shooting, their arrows coming thick and fast even as they galloped, and then the first rank peeled off from the charge, moving obliquely in front of the Romans to flank them. The second rank came on with long lances at the ready. And behind them, the remaining horse archers were shooting more arrows high in the air. The storm of death flew over the Mongols’ charging cavalry and came raining down on the men and horses of the Seco
nd Aravacorum.
Marcellinus had never seen Mongol archers in action before. Their rate of fire seemed uncanny. It was almost impossible to believe that only a hundred or so archers could loose their arrows swiftly enough to create such a dark, deadly storm over the Romans.
Mahkah snapped his fingers twice a second. “They are firing fast. Each archer holds several arrows in his fingers, looses the bowstring with his thumb to shoot, immediately nocks another.”
At a snarled command from Bassus that was clearly audible back at the Great House walls, the Roman cavalrymen spurred their mounts into a canter. The natural bouncing gait helped make them harder targets and closed the distance to the Mongols more speedily.
Another wave of arrows hurtled across the rapidly decreasing gap between the two armies, and then a third. Romans were going down now, tumbling back off their horses as their chain mail was pierced by the deadly arrow swarm. Other arrows glanced off the barding on the horse’s breasts and heads.
Marcellinus could no longer hear the commands, but at a separation of two hundred paces Bassus’s First Turma broke into a full gallop. The Second and Third matched them, holding formation.
The two sides converged. Enopay swore under his breath by Marcellinus’s side, half covering his eyes and half squinting to see better through the brightness and dust of the afternoon. Mahkah stood still as a stone, unblinking.
Lines of horses at a charge did not physically collide, of course. No horse would consent to be charged straight at a wall of men or a wall of other horses. The two lines passed through each other, the soldiers of both sides firing arrows, throwing spears, aiming lances, swinging swords.
The Mongols’ greater numbers prevailed, and their hooked lances did much greater damage than did the lighter hasta and spathas of the Romans. The Third Turma in particular had taken a beating in that first clash. Most of its troopers were down, unhorsed, struggling to their feet while their steeds bounded away from them.
The First and Second Turmae regrouped. The Romans were pausing to recover their breath. The Mongol light archers and their mounts apparently had no need to breathe, because they had already re-formed a line and were charging again. The archers leaned forward to brace themselves, almost standing in the stirrups as they sent another cloud of arrows into the Roman cavalry.
