by Alan Smale
Marcellinus raised himself up onto his toes, peering out over the continuing melee. What he saw made little sense to him. “What happened?”
“The hand came in,” Takoda said.
“Whose hand?” Marcellinus shook his head and looked more closely.
While Marcellinus had been pursuing his vendetta in the middle of the line, the Shappans’ right flank had collapsed. They were still engaged in hand-to-hand fighting, but it appeared that they also were battling an enemy beside and behind them. In the center of the line the tide was turning, and the First Cahokian had the other flank of the Shappa Ta’atani almost enveloped.
Then he looked up. Macaws were mobbing the Shappa Ta’atani, their red and green feathers dazzling in the air. At least ten Macaws, along with a single Eagle that looped back and forth over the Shappans just a couple of hundred feet up. Aboard it was Taianita, shooting arrow after arrow into the bodies of her former tormenters from the air while her two fellow pilots focused on steering the craft and not colliding with the much faster Macaws.
The Eagle was low enough that a stray Mongol arrow from the battlefield might easily reach it. Marcellinus grimaced, but this was hardly a day when he could criticize anyone else for recklessness.
Takoda peered at him. “Wanageeska? You understand? The People of the Hand, the warriors from the southwest. They came to fight the Shappa Ta’atani.”
“How the hell…?” The Hand were supposed to be on the right wing of the Third Legion, forming the strong link between the Third and the 27th. Miles away across the Grass.
But sure enough, he could see them now, the brutal warriors of the Hand carving a deep hole in the side of the Shappa Ta’atani phalanx. Half of them were fighting the Shappans while the other half guarded their own rear against the Mongols, and a dozen or more Macaws were spitting arrows into the whole mess.
Takoda waved his hand, a gesture meaning All changed. “And now they are here. You remember that they have warred with the Shappa Ta’atani before, no?”
Furnius stood, wiping his mouth, all business again. He frowned up at the leftmost of two Sky Lanterns, whose crew appeared to be signaling down.
Enopay arrived at a run, taking in Marcellinus’s disheveled and bloody appearance. By the expression in the boy’s eyes, Marcellinus must look terrible. “Report, Enopay.”
“Futete, Eyanosa…What happened?”
“Gods, what do you think happened? I got in a fight.”
“Do you need Chumanee?”
“Report, Enopay. Now.”
Enopay shook his head in disbelief. “Uh, yes, sir.”
Furnius broke in, reporting what the Sky Lanterns were telling him. “Shappans folding, and Mongol cavalry falling back.”
“Falling back?” Marcellinus could surely use a higher vantage point right now. “Where’s my horse?”
“You told me to take it away,” Enopay said.
“It’s probably at the back with your guards,” Furnius added pointedly.
“Definitely falling back? Not just regrouping to attack again?”
He already knew the answer. From his left the remains of the Fourth Cohort were cheering. Others burst forward into a run to fall on the left flank of the hapless Shappa Ta’atani.
Taianita’s Eagle shot over him, losing height. The front line of the Ninth jumped back as it came to ground. She landed on her feet, then crumpled; the two other pilots both dropped to their knees under the full weight of the craft. Legionaries jumped to lift the wing off their shoulders.
Was Taianita injured? No, Marcellinus saw no blood. She was just exhausted.
But she had been in the air right over the Shappan army. He needed to know what she’d seen. He gestured to two of his nearest foot soldiers. “Go help her. Bring her here. Carry her if you need to. But be gentle with her.”
“The Shappans have broken,” Furnius said.
Marcellinus heard a roar and turned. It was true. The Shappa Ta’atani ranks had sheared and fractured, and warriors were fleeing away across the battlefield with the brightly feathered warriors of the Hand in hot pursuit, Macaws in the air as well as braves on the ground. The First Cahokian left them to it, some sinking to their knees, dog-tired, others cheering and hurling insults.
And the Mongol cavalry certainly had withdrawn. All along the front of the Sixth Ferrata his legionaries were standing down, his centurions wiping their brows, taking stock of who in their ranks was alive, who was dead.
“Taianita?”
His legionaries had brought her, one on each side, half supporting and half carrying her. Her eyes were wild. She looked gleeful and chagrined, an odd swirl of emotions, and by the way she clutched her stomach Marcellinus wondered if she was about to be sick like Furnius. Over her shoulder he saw Napayshni riding toward them between the lines of the cohorts.
“Killing them,” Taianita said with something like awe.
“What?”
Her eyes burned, her glee unholy. “The Hand. And then the Mongols.”
Napayshni arrived. “The Mongols turned on the Shappa Ta’atani as they fled. Hacking them down from horseback.” He looked shaken.
“The Shappans? They weren’t attacking the Hand?”
“No; the Hand retreated when they saw the Mongols bearing down on them. They’re safe behind our line again. But the Shappans…slaughtered.”
Marcellinus wasn’t surprised. “The Mongols despise cowardice. And failure.”
“I killed a lot of them first,” Taianita said viciously. “Arrows. Took them down. But I didn’t see Son of the Sun.” She kicked at a tussock of grass. “Didn’t see him. Didn’t.”
Marcellinus pulled the copper gorget from his sleeve and held it out to her. “Taianita, I killed Son of the Sun. I sent him to hell.”
She stared at him for a second, and then her mood immediately broke and she threw her arms around him, sobbing. Marcellinus looked down at her, simultaneously moved and baffled.
Enopay’s eyes were troubled. “The Mongols kill their own allies now?”
“Allies they consider worthless. They kill their own warriors, too, if they believe them to be cowards or unworthy. Taianita, please…Let me go. I have to talk with my tribunes and hear any dispatches that may have come in. Go back and rest. We will talk later. Yes?” Taianita released him, still sniffling. “Enopay, take Taianita back to the Thunderbird clan. Make sure someone looks after her. Takoda, go with them and then bring my horse to me.” All of a sudden he felt exhausted.
“I will do it. Come.” Enopay took Taianita’s hand. She stood calmly now, brushing at her eyes with the other hand as if trying to absorb everything that had happened. “Is it over, Eyanosa?” the boy asked. “The war?”
“The battle, maybe, for today at least. We should go and find out.” Marcellinus looked to see which of his other adjutants was nearby. “Aulus? If the battle really is over, have the tribunes assign squads to carts to start collecting our dead. Roman and Cahokian, mind. No distinction. Have them all brought to Forward Camp.”
Marcellinus paused, then added, “Don’t just spread the order and leave. Supervise the operation. Get it done. I’m holding you personally responsible.”
Aulus gulped. “Sir, yes, sir.”
He looked so ashen that Marcellinus almost regretted the order. But this might be a long campaign, and earlier Aulus had shown insubordination at one of the least opportune moments. After today, his adjutant would not make that mistake again.
—
Once they were sure the Mongols had left the field, the Imperator sounded the retreat and the news was carried from one end of the line to the other by cornu.
Marcellinus’s trumpeters sent out the general order to stand down, at which point most of his legion and all the Cahokians dropped their weapons and sat down where they were, some in ranks, others scattered across the plains. Appius Gallus raised his eyebrows, but Marcellinus waved away his objections.
Gods, this had been a long, hot day, and if anything it
was getting hotter. Marcellinus, his Sixth Ferrata, and his First Cahokian were completely spent. They could only hope that the Mongols were similarly weary.
Now that the scouts could easily bring dispatches again, Marcellinus learned more.
Just a few miles away from Marcellinus’s battlefield the Legio III Parthica had spent its afternoon embroiled in a similar action. Uncomplicated by an infantry assault by Hesperian warriors, they had suffered wave after wave of mounted Mongol assaults all afternoon with little respite. They had sustained significant casualties, largely from arrow attacks, and had wrought damage on perhaps an equivalent number of Mongol light cavalrymen, a painful battle of attrition with no conclusive result.
It turned out that the Mongol cavalry had cut down many of the fleeing Shappans in passing as they galloped back, but not all. The rest, the Mongols had merely contemptuously abandoned to their fate.
The tattered remains of the Shappa Ta’atani had fled to the Wemissori but had found no relief there. The Tlingit war canoes had retreated upriver with the rest of the Mongol army. The hapless and leaderless Shappa Ta’atani instead found the cohorts of the 27th that had been stationed on the flanks, soldiers who had spent all day guarding against the risk of an enveloping strike attack that had never come. Deprived of action while their comrades had spent the day fighting, Agrippa’s men lost no time in rounding up and annihilating the Shappa Ta’atani. None survived.
Tahtay set off back to camp with his warriors of the Hesperian League without consulting Marcellinus. Marcellinus was not surprised. He would do his best to make his peace with the war chief later.
And just as Marcellinus was beginning to get really worried, Hanska appeared with her Third Cahokian Cohort from an entirely unexpected direction. They had assisted the People of the Hand with the latter half of their hazardous journey across the battlefield and then ducked around the rear of the Sixth to join up with the remains of Mahkah’s Second.
Hanska had done all of this on her own initiative, totally disobeying the orders Marcellinus had given her. Because one of her best friends, Mahkah, had fallen in battle that day, Marcellinus doubted he would ever discipline her for it.
The Mongols made no attempt to retrieve the bodies of their dead. They just fell back and left a battlefield strewn with corpses.
Certainly the Romans would not expend the energy to give their enemies an honorable burial, but the bodies were gruesome to behold and many already stank. The horses shied away from them, and some of the legionaries did, too. The centurions drew straws, and the men of the losing centuries made a second pass with mules to loop ropes around the heels of the Mongol corpses and drag them off the killing fields.
It took the legions and auxiliary cohorts of the Roman alliance more than three hours to march back to Forward Camp and filter back into their barracks and tents. After getting his soldiers and warriors settled, Marcellinus headed to the hospital area to ensure that the wounded were getting good care. Only after that did he go to meet with his Imperator and the other Praetors and chiefs.
—
“Fuck this shit.” Aelfric stormed into Marcellinus’s tent. “They’re not ready, and we’re just getting them killed.”
Marcellinus thought of the fresh-faced boys in the cohorts of the Sixth whose bodies were also still being carried from the battlefield. “Everyone has a first battle.”
“And for some, it’s their last.” Aelfric slumped into a chair. “Dear sweet Christ, I thought I was ready to come back to the legions. I’d had my little holiday out with the wild men and was ready to come home.”
“Wild men?”
“Barbarians. Hesperians.” He wilted a little under Marcellinus’s frown. “Sorry. I guess I’ve grown unused to…casualties.”
“Then you’d better get used to them again.”
Aelfric stared. “Well. You certainly turned hard again fast.” He leaned forward. “This was Mahkah.”
“I know who it was!”
Marcellinus felt the loss of Mahkah like a physical ache. He had first met Mahkah as a callow and uncoordinated youth of sixteen winters on the river on the way to Woshakee. Since then Mahkah had stayed by Marcellinus’s side in battle in Cahokia, all the way down the Mizipi and up the Wemissori, across the Plains to the buffalo jump, and back to Cahokia again. He had saved Marcellinus’s life, perhaps more than once. Mahkah had grown into a fine warrior and a fine man. And by giving that warrior his own command and an almost impossible job to do, Marcellinus had gotten him killed on the first day of the war.
“Christ. I’m sorry.”
Marcellinus blinked and looked up. After snapping at Aelfric he had put his head in his hands and sunk down into his chair. Now Aelfric was looking down at him with concern in his eyes. “Sorry, man.”
“Believe me,” Marcellinus said with some difficulty, then cleared his throat and began again. “Aelfric, believe me when I tell you that Mahkah’s death was the last thing I wanted and one of the biggest weights on my mind at this moment.”
“Aye.” Aelfric sat back.
“But we’re at war. Eventually we’ll drink beer and toast the men we’ve lost. For now, we just need to figure out tomorrow.” He studied the Briton’s face.
“Give them to me, man,” Aelfric said. “Let me have them.”
“Who?”
“Mahkah’s Second Cahokian. What’s left of ’em, anyway. Who else is going to command them?”
“Hanska, of course.” Over half of the Second had died that day, and Hanska had already ridden across the battlefield in support of the survivors.
“Don’t be daft. Hanska’s even madder than you, and she’ll get them killed even quicker than Mahkah did.”
“Good luck telling her that.” Marcellinus was very tired, and he still had a lot to do tonight. “Aelfric, you have two cohorts of the Sixth to lead. And then you say you’re unprepared for casualties. And now you say you want to lead the Second. Well, which is it? Do I have a tribune or don’t I?”
Aelfric glowered at him.
Marcellinus stared back. “If you’re not up for this anymore…Aelfric, if you choose to desert, I won’t send out men to look for you.”
“Desert?” Aelfric stood abruptly. “Who mentioned desertion? I’m staying. I’ll lead the cohorts. But lots of cohorts have attached cavalry. Give me the Second and I’ll lead them, too. They know me. Jesus, I rode with Mahkah all the time. Give them to anyone else and they’re on your conscience.”
“They’re on my conscience anyway, thank you very much. And they’re Cahokian. They go to Hanska unless she or Tahtay says otherwise.”
Aelfric passed his hand in front of his eyes, looked at the roof of the tent as if praying, and then said: “All right. If you say so.”
“And we still have work to do.” Marcellinus stood, picked up some buffalo jerky, and looked at it for a moment. He really should eat something. “Round up Dizala and Appius Gallus and get back here with them as soon as you can. We need to plan.”
Another long, awful pause descended. Aelfric stared at him, his face unreadable.
“Well?” Marcellinus demanded. They were at war, and either Marcellinus was in charge of his tribune or he was not. If not, he would need to find another one. He found himself running through names in his mind.
But eventually Aelfric nodded. “Sir, yes, sir.” He saluted and stepped out of the tent.
—
After his meeting with Dizala, Aelfric, and Gallus, Marcellinus walked the camp. He found his legionaries and warriors surprisingly busy. Despite their arduous day or perhaps because of it, their blood was up. They were soldiers, after all, and they had waited a long time for this.
In the Roman part of the camp, Marcellinus found a quiet satisfaction at their day’s work, which he felt they deserved. Some were ready to avenge today’s deaths among their friends and comrades. Others had savored the intoxication of killing and wanted to kill again. All, having come so far and finally arrived on the field of battle, shared
the feeling of armies throughout history: Let’s get this over with.
Many were at the rudimentary shrines the legions had brought into the field: the temples of Sol Invictus and Cybele, the prayer rail of the Christ-Risen, the dark thatched hut where the followers of the Mithraic cult performed their ceremonies. A surprising number stood at the shrine to Jupiter Imperator or paid their respects to the Aquilae of the three legions.
Over in the Hesperian part of the camp the mood was more lively. The braves had fought lightly armored and were more used to running and walking long distances, and so they had retained more energy.
The First Cahokian was celebrating its victory over the Shappa Ta’atani. The Ocatani among them, or those of them who had Ocatani friends and relatives, felt that they had avenged their past defeat, somehow eliding the odd fact that they were surrounded by men of the Sixth Ironclads who had inflicted the major role in that defeat.
If the First Cahokian was happy, the Wolf Warriors, who had been deprived of a war against the Iroqua and then of a second war against Roma, were almost delirious with joy. Those who had taken Mongol or Shappan scalps paraded their trophies with pride. Those who had yet to score bragged of the bravery they would exhibit on the morrow. Where the Romans were swapping vile jokes and relaxing over games of knucklebones, the Cahokians were singing and drumming their songs to Red Horn, and once the brightly decorated People of the Hand showed up at the party, it seemed quite possible that war dances could break out at any moment.
Despite the many deaths they had suffered this day, no one seemed cowed. All were ready to fight again.
As Marcellinus walked around that night exchanging comments with his legionaries and warriors, slapping backs and arms, exchanging jokes and insults, he did not come across Tahtay, Kimimela, Enopay, or Taianita. He suspected they were hiding together somewhere and wondered what they were talking about. He did find Sintikala, who was engaged in technical discussions with Demothi, Chenoa, and Manius Ifer about how they might speed the deployment of the launching towers farther into the field. By the set of Sintikala’s shoulders and her frown he could tell that her day had been taxing. After listening for a few minutes and offering some suggestions, none particularly profound, he faded away into the background to let the experts talk.
