by Alan Smale
“You use my father against me? And Hurit? And next you will say Mahkah and Mikasi? Who else? Is there anyone you will not use to get what you want, to make me fight your Roman war?”
Marcellinus’s mouth went dry. “Mahkah?”
“Yes, Mahkah, who with Hanska and Takoda saved us from the Iroqua. Who stood over us both and took wounds for us. Do not pretend you did not know.”
“Tahtay.” Marcellinus seized the war chief again. “What the hell happened to Mahkah?”
“Enopay did not tell you?”
“Tahtay…”
“We were assaulted by Mongols. The Ninth Syrian and the Second Cahokian came in to help us, with the Second trying to be stalwart and courageous, to keep up with your Romans. Mahkah coming in between the Mongols and me, Dustu, Akecheta, his other brothers. He fell, Hotah. He is dead, destroyed. Mahkah is dead. Are you happy now? You and your great war and your great Romans?”
“Tahtay.” Dustu had seen what was going on and come striding back. “The Wanageeska is not your enemy. Come. Lead us. We need you.”
Tahtay blinked and looked up at Marcellinus again. The weight did not drop from his shoulders as it did when Kimimela spoke, but his eyes had cleared just a little. Perhaps his anger had helped. “Later, Hotah. We will talk more.”
Marcellinus nodded curtly. Tahtay stepped away.
Mahkah was dead?
Damn it.
But they were at war. Many more lives were at stake. Marcellinus had lost men before, and he would lose more today. For now he needed to harden his heart. Later there would be time to grieve.
In front of him, the melee had ceased. The Third Cohort were streaming past them in two groups. The Shappans had stepped away to breathe and form up again. They knew better than to spill into a gap between two columns of Romans, and they, too, must have welcomed the respite. Tired and wounded warriors limped back from the Shappan front line. Newer, fresher warriors came forward to take their places. Among them Marcellinus recognized some of the clan chiefs he had feasted with on the Shappan Temple Mound during the Green Corn Festival. There were the chiefs of Beaver and Deer, and off to the side, bent forward and winded, was the young chief of the Snake clan.
Bodies lay in the area between the two armies. Romans were dragging their dead back, and after a pause the Shappans did likewise.
From his left and right he felt the shock and heard the furor as the Mongol heavies again slammed into the Roman front line. Again came the crackle of small explosions from Jin salt weapons. “Great Jove…”
He tried to put it out of his mind. One fight at a time.
And then the sound of mounted warfare retreated from his consciousness, for Son of the Sun had stepped forward into the gap between the two armies.
Suddenly Marcellinus felt a rage of a strength that startled him, coupled with a wave of fear.
The combination rocked him. For all his most formidable opponents—the Huron at the Battle for Cahokia, Avenaka on the Great Mound just after his murder of Great Sun Man, and Son of the Sun himself at their last face-to-face meeting on the banks of the Mizipi—Marcellinus had felt a wariness and a respect. This sudden fear was a new thing, and it shook him.
Had this land changed him? Had he gained family and community at the cost of his courage in battle?
If so, he might be about to lose all of it. And die with Tahtay’s hatred uppermost in his mind.
If only Tahtay hadn’t told him about Mahkah’s death. Marcellinus would give anything not to have that appalling realization in his mind, distracting him from the here and now.
An explosion came from far to his left. Another grenade of that damned Jin salt. Legionaries howled in pain. White smoke wafted over the battle line, but it did not buckle. Good men. Brave men.
Son of the Sun was marshaling his front line, keeping a wary eye on the First Cahokian, where Akecheta and Tahtay were doing the same thing. The Cahokian and Shappan forces stood a scant twenty yards apart. Warriors whooped, preparing themselves to fight. Some Shappans held bows, although once the fray began again, they’d get off just a single arrow before having to drop the weapon and bring up a club or an ax.
The two Hesperian armies looked well matched. Some Shappans wore the Roman breastplates and greaves that they had been given by the Sixth Ferrata to help them take Ocatan. Others wore the traditional Hesperian wooden or matting armor.
Not one wore a helmet. Perhaps the Shappans considered them unmanly. It was a choice they might regret. Also, none carried Roman shields or weapons, clearly preferring the clubs and axes of their heritage. The Shappans as a nation wore less war paint than did the Cahokians; instead their faces bore more tattoos and vicious-looking scarifications. Some looked horrific, like patched-up human beings from a nightmare.
By comparison, the First Cahokian was neat and orderly in its use of Roman weapons and helmets. But if anything, their uniformity made them look odd, un-Hesperian, almost effete compared with the Shappa Ta’atani.
Son of the Sun was a large man and heavyset, but today he appeared a giant. He wore wooden chest armor and over it the copper gorget of his office. In his right hand he held a mace, not of ceremonial chert but a longer, heavier, and more vicious battle weapon of hard wood with a large rounded rock set into its business end. His arms and legs were bare, showing off his hard musculature in addition to a daunting array of tattoos and scarifications. And as Marcellinus looked along the rallying ranks of the First Cahokian, Son of the Sun finally turned and caught sight of him.
The Shappan war chief’s mouth cracked open into a broad, manic smile. He took a single step forward. Behind him, his men were lined up and ready.
With a new shock, Marcellinus saw that his gladius hung from the chief’s waist, Marcellinus’s gladius with the ornate hilt from his campaign against the Khwarezmian Sultanate. The sword he had traded for Taianita on the riverbank outside Shappa Ta’atan.
Holding his gaze, Son of the Sun drew it now, pointed it at Marcellinus, and waggled it. With his other hand he beckoned.
The war chief’s meaning was clear. It was an invitation to single combat.
Only a fraction of the First Cahokian had been with Marcellinus on the river. Akecheta had, of course, and now broke off from his haranguing of the First to look worriedly at Marcellinus. Tahtay was looking back and forth between them, perplexed, and Marcellinus remembered that Tahtay had never before seen the Shappan war chief.
Marcellinus assumed a look of imperious contempt and raised his arms to make the hand-talk in the same phrases the chief had used to him on the riverbank: You want fight? Then we all fight. Unable to resist, he followed this with an obscene gesture, and the First Cahokians who saw it broke out in that tense, aggressive laughter sometimes heard on fields of war. Out loud, Marcellinus shouted “First Cahokian! Let us slay the traitors of Shappa Ta’atan who murdered our brothers and sisters at Ocatan!”
The First Cahokian growled and braced. Tahtay nodded to Akecheta.
“Maintain the line! Walk forward! Pila! Kill Shappa Ta’atani!” Akecheta bellowed. His commands were in Latin, as were almost all battle commands to the First Cahokian, and quizzical expressions briefly crossed the faces of some of the Shappa Ta’atani.
Son of the Sun shrugged disdainfully, sheathed the gladius, and raised his mace. His voice boomed. “Kill Cahokians.”
The Cahokian front line took one step forward and cast their pila. At the same moment the Shappa Ta’atani threw their own spears and charged forward after them.
The First Cahokian’s discipline held. They stepped up to face the Shappan charge, as cool as any Romans, thrusting their scuta forward. Those with thrusting spears or swords swung them, jabbing down over the top of the scuta at their enemies. Many of the Shappans were quick enough to avoid the thrusts and bring their clubs and axes down on Cahokian shields. The lines engaged, howling profanities.
Despite his earlier moment of nerves Tahtay had thrown himself forward with the rest of the First. His swor
d met a Shappan tomahawk and smashed it away; the young man slashed downward almost immediately to cleave the wooden armor of his assailant.
But that was all that Marcellinus saw, because Son of the Sun was barreling toward him.
Marcellinus raised his shield and broke into a run. If he was standing still when Son of the Sun impacted him, he might be bowled over. Beside and behind him other Cahokians surged, with Furnius drawing a blade and throwing himself forward, too.
Marcellinus and Son of the Sun met at something like full running speed, Marcellinus ramming the boss of his shield into his opponent as hard as he could. At the same time Son of the Sun leaped, bringing down that gigantic stone mace.
Son of the Sun’s stone club met the steel-lined rim of the shield, and the impact of his charge knocked Marcellinus backward. However, the momentum of the moving shield boss with Marcellinus’s weight behind it had smashed Son of the Sun’s arm back into his body and thrown him off balance as well. The Shappan war chief bounced away and crashed into one of his own warriors. He fell onto his right knee, not quite tumbling over entirely.
The back of Marcellinus’s helmet banged against the breastplate of the man behind him as he fell. Flat on his back, he found himself glimpsing sky through a long fissure in his shield. Son of the Sun’s blow had bent the steel rim and cracked the wood of the shield from top to bottom. He swung it anyway, just as Son of the Sun pushed himself up and brought the mace down again.
The shield exploded into a mess of wood and splinters. Marcellinus threw the remains aside and tried to roll away, but all around him were the legs of warriors. The two armies were fighting at close quarters, and he had almost no space to maneuver. Furnius was no longer beside him, and it was a mercy that Marcellinus had not already been kicked in the head.
It was fear as much as dexterity that brought Marcellinus onto his feet again: fear of Son of the Sun’s speed, fear of being trampled in the scrimmage. Right beside him a Shappan and a Cahokian wrestled for possession of an ax, kicking and barging each other. Just six feet away Son of the Sun tried to swing, but two of his own warriors blundered into him, carrying him back.
The Shappan front line drove forward again. Shappan warriors lunged. With his sword in his hand but no shield, Marcellinus shoved against them. All around was the reek of sweat, leather, smoke, and blood.
It was almost absurd. Only a few feet separated Son of the Sun from Marcellinus, but neither could bring his weapons up to attack. Warriors of the First Cahokian were coming to defend and protect him. Furnius was yelling in Latin—“Let me through! Let me through!”—but the Cahokians could not have complied even if they had understood.
Similarly, Shappan warriors were attempting to get past Son of the Sun to attack Marcellinus. One brave almost succeeded in shoving through the throng, and Marcellinus recognized the chief of the Beaver clan, a man who had shown him no harm or disrespect in Shappa Ta’atan, one of the few clan chiefs there he had liked.
With a strange howl the whole front line surged again like a tidal wave, carrying them with it. Marcellinus snatched his gladius back before he punctured the Cahokian brave who was pressed against him on his right, and then the swell of battle thrust him toward Son of the Sun again, jamming them up against each other without either managing to get in a good blow. Son of the Sun loomed over him, baring his teeth, and again Marcellinus felt that baffling terror.
Fear was the killer. Fear would slow his brain and his arm and leave him dead in the dirt. Where was his battle ardor, that berserker fury that had sustained him in hot war throughout his life?
His arms almost pinned, Marcellinus aimed a head butt. Son of the Sun, still grinning that insane battle grin, merely leaned away. And now the war chief thrust hard at the men who crowded him on either side, trying to free up space.
Very well. Marcellinus could not fight the tide, and he could not wrestle a thousand men. And if he did not face his fear, he might as well be dead already.
Marcellinus relaxed. Gravity, and the pressure of the bodies around him, dragged him down. The sky disappeared, and he saw only tunics and steel and heard the grunting of men shoving and punching each other as best they could.
He was on the ground, and all around him was a snake pit of legs, moccasins, and mud. He clutched his sword close, trying to guard his head and keep his presence of mind.
There. Son of the Sun’s gladius, Marcellinus’s old jeweled gladius that he knew so well, hung down to his left, only four men away from him.
He slashed at the legs between him and that gladius, careless of whether they belonged to friend or foe. A knee cracked into his helmet, momentarily dizzying him, and his anger began to build. He scrambled forward through the mud. In the process he shoved a brave over, and then another. The second landed on top of him in a crunch of pain and then rolled away. Marcellinus kept going, relentless and bloody-minded.
He was buffeted sideways. He took another kick to the helmet. “Fuck!” Too many of those and it would be all over. His first instinct was to hamstring the offender, but no, he might be a Cahokian, even someone Marcellinus knew.
Something else plinked against his helmet. It was his own gladius with the ornate hilt, still hanging from Son of the Sun’s belt. The war chief was directly above him. With no further thought Marcellinus rolled onto his back and thrust upward with the sword he held in his hand. Blood cascaded down over his face.
The mace came thumping down into the mud by his head. Son of the Sun glared down at him from a sea of arms and heads and weapons with painfully bright streaks of white sky behind it, and mercifully Marcellinus kept his grip on his gladius as yet another warrior tripped over him.
Marcellinus stabbed upward into Son of the Sun’s abdomen. Rolled and stabbed again as the mace almost took his head off. Twisted and slashed deep into Son of the Sun’s thigh.
Son of the Sun crashed down almost on top of him. The mace was no longer in his hands, but he would not have been able to swing it in such a confined space anyway. Instead the Shappan chief had drawn the jeweled gladius. He thrust it forward, and its blade skated off Marcellinus’s breastplate; Son of the Sun had been aiming for his guts but had had his blow knocked aside by the scrum of people above them.
Marcellinus’s head rang yet again as he was hit from behind. Moments later he was kicked in the back, but his rage was now all directed forward, and his pugio had appeared in his hand without him having any memory of drawing it.
Son of the Sun thrust the gladius at Marcellinus’s throat. Marcellinus was in danger of being killed by his own weapon.
Marcellinus had nowhere to retreat to. He had to grab at the sword blade and push it away with his bare hand. Its sharp edge scored a bloody line along his palm and across the bony edge of his wrist, and again he barely noticed the pain.
Marcellinus jabbed his pugio into Son of the Sun’s face, and the war chief roared as it sliced into his nose. He rammed his knee into Marcellinus’s gut. Marcellinus gasped, all the air driven out of him, but his fury made up for it. He twisted and thrust forward, and the point of his pugio slid into Son of the Sun’s windpipe.
The war chief’s eyes went wide. He gurgled and punched at Marcellinus, who ducked his head just in time. Son of the Sun’s fist slammed into his helmet.
Marcellinus wrenched sideways with what remained of his strength, and the pugio came free. He leaned in and stared into his enemy’s eyes for one second, two…and the hatred he saw there pulled his remaining reason from him, and he slashed again at the Shappan chief’s throat like a man possessed.
Hands came down and grabbed at Marcellinus’s shoulders. Furnius had found him. Marcellinus resisted. He wanted to be sure that Son of the Sun was dead. But he certainly was or would be in moments; he lolled back, his face suddenly vacant, and when one of his own Shappans tripped and toppled over the war chief, he did not react at all.
More hands came down. Friends or enemies? Aside from his bloody pugio the nearest weapon was his jeweled gladius, and
that was out of arm’s reach. Marcellinus lunged for it anyway but could not get to it.
He didn’t care. He didn’t want it back now anyway. What good were jewels to him? What good the memories?
Instead, he grabbed the copper gorget from Son of the Sun’s chest. He tore it free and thrust it into his sleeve. Only then did Marcellinus allow himself to be dragged up and away from the body of the treacherous chieftain.
Furnius pulled Marcellinus to his feet while Takoda took his other side, shield in hand, protecting him. Around them Cahokians and Shappa Ta’atani still hacked away at one another. Marcellinus allowed his adjutants to draw him back out of the combat zone, and as he did so, his eyes met those of the young Snake clan chief in the third row of the Shappan line, his expression unreadable. Did he know that Marcellinus had just slain his chief?
Furnius and Takoda hustled him back. Dustu had appeared, holding out a gladius in the rear guard, his eyes alert for danger. As soon as they were clear, he nodded to Marcellinus and ran back into the fight.
The breath had returned to Marcellinus’s body, and with it harsh aches in his chest, sharp pain in his sliced-up hand, and the throb of bruising in his back and shoulders. It didn’t matter. “Got the bastard,” Marcellinus said.
“Back, back, back farther…” Furnius was shaken, almost babbling, and now Marcellinus saw the wounds to his adjutant’s arms and shoulders, the blood pouring down his leg. For the first time he wondered how old Furnius was, whether he’d seen much action before. “Jupiter, sir, are you crazy? Back, back to your guards.”
“Easy, soldier. None of that was your fault.”
“Fine for you to say. The Imperator—”
Furnius’s face creased, and he dropped to his knees and retched.
Yes, if Marcellinus had died, Hadrianus would have taken it out on his adjutants’ hides. Marcellinus pulled down another deep breath, winced, and patted the man rather distantly on the shoulder.
He was standing between centuries of the Eighth and Ninth who were waiting in reserve to be sent in. Their shields rested against their legs, but all clutched their pila or gladii, their eyes wide and darting. Half were staring at him in open amazement.
