Eagle and Empire

by Alan Smale

  He felt himself jerked upright. It was Takoda, yanking on his arm. Sollonius was trading sword blows with the first Mongol horseman, and Aulus had grabbed the reins of Marcellinus’s horse to steady it. “Back!” Aulus was shouting, his face set, eyes furious. “Back, back, now!”

  In front of him the front lines of the First wrestled with the Mongol heavies. Not thirty feet behind him the legionaries of his Second Cohort were still in combat with the warriors of Shappa Ta’atan. Arrows, stones, and the occasional black powder grenade tumbled down on the rearward ranks of his cohorts. A pall of smoke was building over them all as Marcellinus allowed himself to be steered back into the middle of his army by his adjutants.

  “All right, damn it, give me my horse.” Now safely behind the First, Marcellinus plucked the reins of his horse from Aulus’s hands. Next to him the Seventh Cohort had arrayed into a battle line, facing right, with the Eighth hurrying to fall into position beside it. Smart, smart; the Mongol line of horsemen might curve around to flank them at any moment. At the far end of the line of the Sixth he saw Aelfric on foot, running with his gladius in his hand and his scutum high over his head, pulling some of his centuries in line with Ifer’s Tenth. Something critical was happening over there on his left, but he would have to leave it to Ifer and Aelfric for now—

  Above Marcellinus, the Sky Lantern exploded.

  “Fuck!” Aulus shouted, profoundly rattled. “Fuck everything!”

  “Easy, soldier,” Marcellinus said, and looked up.

  The cotton bag of the Sky Lantern was ablaze, hot red flames licking up its side. A man fell from it, a legionary, windmilling in the air until he crashed to earth far behind the Ninth and mercifully beyond Marcellinus’s sight. The other pilots clung to the frame except for one of the Ravens, who appeared to be standing on the wooden platform slashing with an ax. As Marcellinus watched, the fire jar dropped from the center of the frame, tumbling to earth to shatter into a thousand flaming pieces.

  But nothing could lighten the Lantern enough to save it. It began to fall out of the air. Another man, a Cahokian this time, lost his grip and plummeted to the ground.

  The Raven still standing was Chogan. Marcellinus saw him shake his head and then deliberately leap clear of the Sky Lantern in a graceful swan dive. Above him a square of cloth opened, jerking him in the air to sway beneath it.

  It was the first use of a Falling Leaf from altitude. For obvious reasons, they had never tested it from a killing height with a human being before.

  Still blazing, the remains of the Sky Lantern crumpled to earth. Chogan followed it down, his arms and legs thrashing as if he were trying to climb away from the ground as it came up to meet him. The cotton square of the Falling Leaf fluttered above him. It was arresting his speed, but would it be enough?

  Marcellinus looked away, feeling sick. And in moving his head he now caught sight of a Feathered Serpent of the Yokot’an Maya rippling away, writhing northward back across the sky toward the Mongol line.

  It was surely this Serpent that had dealt the death blow to the Sky Lantern. Hawks assailed it now. Two were flying back from the western edge of the battle line. Two more arced up from behind the Sixth Legion, newly launched. Arrows flew. Much quicker than the Serpent, the Hawks overhauled it and pumped arrows into it at almost point-blank range.

  The Maya craft shivered in the air as the arrows hit. Much more gently than the Lantern, it began to sink earthward. Two of its pilots hung limp in their straps, and without their help the rest of its crew could not possibly control it. Even now the Hawk pilots were still shooting arrows, taking their revenge. It would soon be over.

  Marcellinus brought his attention back to earth. The Mongol heavies had disengaged from the Roman front line and were cantering back across the grass. Once they were out of the way, the Mongol horse archers again brought their terrible bows to bear, firing into his ranks.

  Shit. Too much was happening at once. “We must change out the front line!” Marcellinus snapped to Sollonius, but Appius Gallus was already on it. The third and fourth lines were stepping forward with scuta raised to allow their fellows to rotate out. The next Mongol assault would face fresh legionaries. Those men who had already fought could rest.

  Marcellinus would get no more signals from his doomed Sky Lantern, and it would take a while to launch another. “How do the Second and Third fare?” he asked Aulus.

  “How the hell would I know?” said his adjutant.

  Ignoring the insubordination—time might be of the essence—Marcellinus looked back along the ranks of his army. The cohorts of First Tribune Aurelius Dizala had given little ground in the face of the Shappan infantry assault. The Mongol heavies were wheeling and would soon be back in another terrifying attack.

  He coughed as a wave of black smoke blew past. To Takoda, he said: “What’s happening with Aelfric on the left? Find out.”

  “I will.” Takoda spurred his horse and rode off.

  Marcellinus had not consciously heard a trumpet signal for some time. Then again, he’d been busy. “Call for news,” he told Aulus. “Learn what you can. Then come tell me. I’m going to the center front with Sollonius. And bad-mouth me one more time, soldier, and I’ll leave you bleeding in the dirt.”

  Aulus was panting. Beneath his bluster, his adjutant was terrified. Now he gulped. “Sir, yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “Better.” Marcellinus nodded curtly, applied his heels to his horse’s flanks, and galloped along the rear of the Second and Third, looking for Aurelius Dizala.

  —

  The Cahokian force under Tahtay and Wahchintonka had also come under heavy assault from the Mongol cavalry and had been pushed back. Now, thanks to defensive interference from the Ninth Syrian and a heroic and costly countercharge from Mahkah’s Second Cahokian, they were advancing again to rejoin the Sixth. And nobody had heard anything from Hanska or her warriors since the battle had begun.

  “Juno,” Marcellinus said to Enopay, who had brought him this news and other dispatches as he and Sollonius stood dismounted at the rear of the Third Cohort. Battlefield confusion was growing. Marcellinus had tried to get to the front lines, where Dizala’s cohorts were still grinding against the Shappa Ta’atani in the slog of the melee, but the press of soldiers was too great. Instead, he had diverted to give encouragement to the centurions of Statius Paulinus’s Fourth Cohort, who had faced an onslaught from the Mongol cavalry of the same force and fury that the First had experienced, but at the cost of many more men. They had been pushed back fifty feet but had held there, largely because the Fifth was behind them and they couldn’t retreat any farther. Bodies, Roman and Mongol, littered the battlefield in front of their line.

  The Mongols had dropped back to mount fresh horses and regroup and were returning to formation, preparing to move in again. “You know what you face,” Marcellinus had concluded to the Fourth. “Set more spears. Farther forward. Pull their spears, yank the verpa off their horses. But watch out for the barbs on those spears.”

  “Sir, yes, sir,” said the centurions.

  Marcellinus saluted them. “Give them hell. Make them bleed. Show these bastards how Roma can fight.”

  The men cheered him, which at least showed they still had animus, battle spirit. Marcellinus had nodded as if it were his due, as a commander must, and then had seen Enopay running nimbly through the Ninth Cohort. Enopay had waved the hand-talk for news just as soon as he had seen Marcellinus and was now giving him that news, for what it was worth.

  “Also, they shot down our Sky Lantern.”

  “I saw that,” Marcellinus said.

  “Do we launch another?”

  Marcellinus surely wanted to. Only a Sky Lantern could tell him what was going on farther away on the battlefield. “Did Chogan live?”

  “Yes, but he is hurt. Broken leg, broken arm.”

  Marcellinus breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Good. All right. Ask Chogan and Sintikala, or whoever’s in charge of Raven and Hawk at the moment, whet
her we can spare Hawks to stay close and protect the Sky Lanterns next time a Serpent or Firebird comes from the enemy—”

  “Never mind.” Enopay pointed. A new Sky Lantern was already rising over the rear of Marcellinus’s army.

  “Talk to the Hawks anyway,” Marcellinus said. “And make sure we get every signal we can out of that Lantern before it gets blown out of the sky as well.”

  Enopay’s eyes widened in alarm. “Yes, sir.”

  Had that sounded cold? Well, they were at war.

  A roar came from behind him. From the Shappa Ta’atani. Marcellinus turned. “Jove. I hate complicated battles.”

  “I hate all of them,” Enopay said fervently. “Oh, here’s Napayshni.”

  Napayshni was running toward them as best he could, favoring his wounded leg. “Where the hell is your horse, Napayshni?”

  “I sent it to Tahtay,” Napayshni panted. “The First Cahokian has rejoined.”

  And indeed, here came Tahtay himself, cantering along the rear of the Sixth Cohort, sitting astride Napayshni’s horse as stiffly as if he were carved from wood. Cahokia’s war chief was not a relaxed horseman, and Marcellinus sometimes marveled that he could persuade his steeds to move at all, since his discomfort and lack of confidence were so apparent to man and beast.

  “Hotah.” Tahtay saluted. “You still live, at least. And Enopay, too.” His eyes looked haunted.

  Marcellinus nodded impatiently. “Where is the First Cahokian?”

  “A mile distant.” Tahtay pointed.

  “Hard or easy?”

  “An easy mile now. The turmae of your Syrians chased the Mongols away from us. We wanted to come to hand to hand with them, but they stayed at bow distance.” Tahtay spit. “Cowards.”

  Marcellinus shook his head. “The First is fresh? You have not fought yet today?”

  “Bows and arrows only; I told you.”

  “How would you like to fight Shappa Ta’atani?”

  If it were possible, Tahtay’s face grew even grimmer. “Now?”

  “Yes, of course now.”

  Marcellinus looked back at his front line. Aurelius Dizala and his centurions and optios had restored some order among his men but were still losing ground. Marcellinus glanced around. “Quickly, Tahtay. The Mongol heavies are about to charge again. I only have moments. Bring the First Cahokian and Wahchintonka’s auxiliaries through to fight the Shappans. Yes?”

  Tahtay looked forward and back, measuring distances. “So Mizipian kills Mizipian again?”

  “Just as the Shappans killed Ocatani. Or have you forgotten?”

  “I have forgotten nothing.” The war chief looked down at Marcellinus, his eyes troubled, and for a moment Marcellinus thought his young friend was going to say something else or even refuse the order.

  They did not have time for that. “Tahtay. Pull yourself together. Get moving.”

  “Mongols charging, sir,” said Sollonius. “Lights flowing through the line of heavies as before. Praetor?”

  Tahtay blanched at the sight of the Mongol line bearing down on them. “Merda…I’ll bring the First.” He kicked ineffectually at his horse’s flanks and, when it did nothing, swore and jumped off it. “Keep your damned horse, Napayshni.” He sprinted away.

  “Here we go, shit,” Sollonius said. “Arrows coming, shield up, shield up!” He lunged forward, raising his shield in front of Marcellinus. “Here we go again—”

  “Breach!” Marcellinus shouted, and stepped back smartly. The rear of the Third Cohort was bulging out toward them. The last ranks were being pushed back, and now they began to break.

  That meant that the front line was breaking, too.

  “Fuck,” Marcellinus said to Sollonius.

  “Yes, sir,” his adjutant replied automatically.

  Marcellinus turned to Enopay. “Didn’t I order you to go talk to the Hawks?”

  “Uh, yes. Sorry. I was worried about Tahtay. He seems…not himself.”

  Marcellinus handed Enopay the reins of his horse. “Go. Take this back past the Ninth Cohort and stay there.”

  Enopay looked uncertainly up at the Thessalian. “Yes, sir.”

  “Sollonius, you’re with me.” Marcellinus strode toward the exploding rear of the Third Cohort.

  —

  Marcellinus was to learn later that the Shappa Ta’atani had literally taken a battering ram to the front of the Third Cohort. Having seen the rams used by the Sixth Ferrata in knocking down the gates of Ocatan, they had experimented with using the idea themselves.

  And then they had brought liquid flame, presumably of their own manufacture, and placed a liberal quantity of it on the front of their ram.

  They had slammed the front of the Roman line with a battering ram that had then burst into flame, searing the legionaries to either side of it. The shock had forced the Roman files apart. The Shappans had followed up with a credible impression of a Roman cuneus, the wedge or pig’s-head formation that had broken many a mob of barbarians in Roma’s past. And so, after a melee that had lasted nearly an hour with little advantage in ground and position, they had managed to shatter the Third Cohort.

  —

  At last, here came the First Cahokian. Tahtay led them, jogging easily out front. Akecheta was running at the front left corner of the cohort as a good centurion should, but was panting visibly. His men were equipped with Roman breastplates, Roman armor, Roman helmets. Most carried their gladii to stop them from banging against their legs in their sheaths as they ran. Others wore their swords at their waists and carried clubs, short spears, axes.

  Marcellinus was not about to object. Let each Cahokian wield the weapon he felt most comfortable with.

  “Form up!” he shouted to Tahtay and Akecheta even before they arrived. Akecheta began snapping out orders as Marcellinus turned to Furnius. “Have the Third Cohort prepare to break off and fall back in good order. I’m bringing the First Cahokian in to relieve them.”

  Furnius looked alarmed. “Bringing? No, sir. You stay back.”

  Ignoring that, Marcellinus continued. “Tell Dizala. But first make sure the First and Fourth Cohorts and everyone behind them continues to stand firm against the Mongol charge.”

  Marcellinus badly needed to be in three places at once. But that wasn’t possible. For now, he would have to trust Appius Gallus and his tribunes. Ahead of him Aurelius Dizala had been in close affray for what? An hour?

  Someone touched his arm. “Hotah?”

  Soldiers were not supposed to lay hands on their commanding officers in the field. It was all Marcellinus could do to stop himself from shaking off Tahtay’s hand. “What?”

  Tahtay was looking past him with troubled eyes. Marcellinus glanced where the boy was staring, but it was just a battle, and a battle they had to get into very soon now—

  Damn it.

  For all Tahtay’s newfound maturity, for all his keen sense in council with the Imperator and the Praetors, for all that he gave the impression of being a magnificent leader…today was still only Tahtay’s second large-scale battle.

  And in his first he had been beaten to the ground, his leg smashed, almost crippled.

  Tahtay’s grip on Marcellinus’s arm was strengthening, and Marcellinus recognized the look in his war chief’s eyes. Tahtay was losing his nerve.

  Futete. After all this?

  He needed Kimimela here to stiffen Tahtay’s spine. Why hadn’t he thought of that? It would have been ten times better to have Kimimela whispering her strength and determination into Tahtay’s ear than to have her careering dangerously around above them in the skies.

  “We need to crush them, war chief,” Marcellinus said bluntly. “Twice now the Shappa Ta’atani have betrayed Cahokia. They have murdered Ocatani. And before that they would have murdered the First Cahokian on the river had we given them the chance. Is it not so?”

  “Of course,” Tahtay said, but his response was automatic. He was sweating hard, looking neither back at his men nor up at Marcellinus but longing
ly to where the Third Cohort was even now withdrawing in ranks and streaming past the First Cahokian.

  “Forward! Walk! Close order!” In the meantime, Akecheta had gotten the First aligned in ranks. Dustu was in the first line along with many other warriors Marcellinus had fought alongside.

  For more reasons than Marcellinus had time to count, they needed to crush the Shappa Ta’atani. They were a dangerous distraction, forcing his attention away from the Mongols. The Sixth Ironclads were fully taxed in resisting the Mongol attacks. He needed the Cahokians to take care of the Shappans.

  “Tahtay? We have to smash them. Today-now. Head on. And you must lead the First. You are war chief of Cahokia.”

  “Yes.”

  What could Marcellinus say? Don’t be afraid?

  Marcellinus leaned in. “Tahtay, I am not Kimimela. But she is right here, behind us both, and she is telling you not to be an idiot or she’ll smack your head. Now get your damned hand off my arm and lead your men into battle. Kill Shappa Ta’atani.”

  Tahtay took a step back, looked behind him.

  Hating himself, Marcellinus grabbed the war chief by the shoulders and physically shook him. “Tahtay! Stand up and act like a man. Hurit is watching. And your father.”

  Tahtay turned slowly to stare at Marcellinus, his disbelief turning to shock and anger, and Marcellinus realized he had gone too far. “Tahtay, I—”

  Tahtay lashed out, his fist swinging up in a ruthless uppercut. With his Roman helmet on, Marcellinus’s chin and nose were the only unprotected areas of his face.

  Marcellinus barely reacted quickly enough. Tahtay’s fist struck his cheek rather than his chin, knocking him sideways.

  Furnius swore, drew his gladius, leaped forward.

  “Stop!” Marcellinus flung up his arms to shove his adjutant away. “Halt! Drop back.”

  Tahtay’s eyes blazed. “Fuck you, Hotah. When we are done here, you are a dead man.”

  Marcellinus nodded. “As you say, war chief.”