by Rick Wilber
Even more men than usual were paying their respects at the temples. Soldiers had died today, and perhaps the piety of the survivors was useful in calming their unease. Marcellinus envied them their ability to believe. Life on the road could be lonely for a man without a personal God.
As he wandered, Marcellinus was generally greeted with a nod, a joke, or a comment on the weather. His presence in the lanes of the castra was commonplace. Rarely did he hear a complaint; most men knew better than to trouble their Praetor with trivial matters. He spared some words for the sycophants and operators, little as he enjoyed the company of either; broke up a couple of squabbles before they turned into brawls; and reminded himself of the names of some of his more seasoned centurions. He did not, however, intrude on two men fistfighting over the attentions of one of the signiferi of the Seventh Cohort, a duplicitous lad with smooth skin and improbably long eyelashes. Nobody would thank Marcellinus for getting in the middle of that.
He took particular care to compliment tonight’s sentries of the watch, who would get only a few hours’ sleep. He also spent a while gossiping with the aquiliferi honor guard, which was easy enough to do; not only were they veterans of a similar age to himself, with similar memories of old campaigns and bygone Imperators, but also these were men who would give their lives for the Aquila. Their loyalty to the Legion was absolute: they were the Fighting 33rd.
All in an evening’s rounds.
Marcellinus had begun his army days sleeping in a contubernium tent just like those he now walked by. Unlike many of his men, he did not miss Roma, and rarely yearned for its comforts. However, deep within the pitiless interior of Nova Hesperia, he found that he did miss the Mare Chesapica, a bay so wide that it almost counted as a sea. He had enjoyed the slightly ridiculous sight of the immense Roman troop transports wallowing in the deep waters of the bay as the square-rigged Viking longships danced around them, tiny by comparison. The longships had guided the mighty vessels of Roma down the chilly coastline of the new continent, like sprightly mice leading a lion on a leash. He had liked watching the gulls floating on the breeze and the herons wading in the marshlands, liked walking the small sandy beaches that had proved quite pleasant once they’d cleared the savages away and cleaned up the sand. It was not at all like the Campania coast in southern Italia where he had furloughed between campaigns–the land around the Chesapica was too flat for true beauty–but it had its appeal nonetheless.
More particularly, their time in the bay had marked the optimistic beginnings of their expedition, before their energy was sapped by the endless marching and their numbers depleted by cowardly foes. Back then they had been able to hope that this whole campaign might be easy.
And, back then, Marcellinus had still felt the authority of Roma on his shoulders, guiding his actions.
Roma had never lost its savagery: a bit of muscle and the willingness to shed blood were crucial in keeping an Imperium strong. Kindness to your own, brutality to those who opposed you; those were the ways of Roma. The Imperium was the greatest civilizing force in the world, and must remain so even if it had to hack off a few heads from time to time. But here in the heartland of Nova Hesperia they were far away from all that, so far from the Forum in Urbs Roma that they might as well have been at the bottom of the sea or–why not?–high in the air.
The farther they marched, the less Marcellinus felt Roma’s power. Nova Hesperia owned a different power, something forceful and primal. The natives might be weak, but the land itself was strong, and Marcellinus had not yet come to terms with it. In his heart of hearts, it daunted him.
Here, for the first time in his life, Praetor Gaius Marcellinus felt like he might be the only law.
And with this thought, his sixth sense for danger suddenly came alive.
He was strolling down a lane occupied by auxiliaries. Around him a blur of provincial languages filled the air: German, Magyar, Nubian. Yet despite the comfortable low babble of conversation, the men nearest him were too alert by far. These were men on the verge of action, maybe about to rush him.
Suddenly, Marcellinus was in the lion’s den. For a moment he was a young man back in the Subura, forced to live by his wits.
Was he sure?
He did not look around him again. The men might interpret that as weakness, seeking help. Marcellinus did not need help. He stopped walking, and placed his hand on the hilt of his gladius.
Auxiliaries glanced about, estimating spaces and angles, checking for their centurion, who was conspicuously absent. Yes, his instincts were correct.
Marcellinus said: “The punishment for laying a hand on your commanding officer is death. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you.”
All heads turned toward him.
“However, that death need not be immediate. I could have you whipped till your limbs fall off and the skin peels from your bones.”
He knew they were listening intently. They all understood Latin. It was a condition of service. How many of them were in on this? And who might they crown as the Legion’s new prelate, once he was dead?
He pushed the thoughts aside. “If you have a grievance against me, make it known now. Otherwise–”
To his left, someone moved. Marcellinus spun and stamped down hard on him, and the man howled in Magyar. Leaving his gladius sheathed, Marcellinus grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted his arm up and around in a full circle behind his back; the Magyar came up halfway off the ground and hung there, helpless.
Marcellinus looked not at his potential assailant, but at the other men who surrounded him. He did not blink. This was the moment of truth. It was time for them to decide.
The auxiliaries showed their decision by shuffling back away from him, dropping their gazes, keeping their hands clearly visible. All right, then. To the soldier whose arm he still held in an iron grip Marcellinus said, “When I release you, fall and stay down or I’ll kill you.” He let go, and the man immediately toppled to a supine position, clutching his arm.
Looking down on the soldier, Marcellinus had a sudden distracting memory of Vestilia as a baby, when his wife had first laid his daughter on the ground before him for his approval. Had he not picked her up, Vestilia would have been left out to die. A time-honored Roman tradition.
“I meant you no harm, sir,” said the auxiliary. “I swear it.”
Marcellinus doubted this was true, but any further action against the man would be pointless and would stir up even more resentment. “Then up you come, soldier,” he said, and lent the Magyar an arm, pulling him to his feet. “In future, be more careful.” He looked around at the others. “Without discipline, we’ll never get out of this country alive. Think on that.”
He turned and walked away, without looking back.
Rounding the lane’s end, he glanced casually up at the signum. Third century, Fifth Auxiliaries. Aelfric’s cohort.
A minor incident, but potentially a harbinger of worse to come. He could no longer assume that merely doing the right thing would be sufficient to ensure his men’s loyalty. For the first time, Marcellinus understood his Imperator’s desperation for gold.
His men also felt the waning power of Roma. The farther west they went, the more his Legion threatened to degenerate into a mob. Marcellinus could imagine another thousand miles ahead of them, and another. How far could they march before all order would be lost?
Of course, they’d probably starve first.
***
A week later they found the remains of one of their Norse scouts tied to a tree, carefully positioned in the path of their relentless advance.
Thorkell Sigurdsson would march no more. His thighs were blackened stumps; his legs had been burned off completely to just above the knee. His face was intact but hideously distorted. He had received a haircut clear through to the bone; his scalp had been hacked away, revealing the grey-white of his skull. His chest was a bloody hole where his tormentors had torn out his heart.
The wreckage of the scout was an essay in tort
ure and barbarism. It was an act of appalling atrocity, and judging by the decaying state of the body had happened several days earlier. The Romans might not know exactly the route they would take, but the Iroqua did.
Once more the Legion had come to a halt. The standard-bearer looked like he might throw up at any moment, his eyes darting about nervously.
Marcellinus did not fear an ambush. They stood in a meadow with the trees well separated and little undergrowth, and they could see for hundreds of yards in each direction. The Iroqua had arranged their violent tableau with care, and would allow time for the lesson to sink in.
Very well. But the lesson his men learned might not be the one the Iroqua had intended.
“Bring me my tribunes,” said Marcellinus. “Then have the cohorts march past this spot. Parade order, half speed, no chatter.”
Pollius Scapax nodded. “Helmets?”
Helmets-off would have been the standard mark of respect, but this was enemy territory. “On,” said Marcellinus. “Sigurdsson would understand.”
Flanked by an honor guard of tribunes, and holding the Legion’s golden eagle standard in his own hands, Marcellinus stood to attention by Thorkell Sigurdsson’s side for the two hours it took for the Legion to march past. On each of the three thousand faces, legionaries and auxiliaries alike, he saw the same expression: not fear, not revulsion, but respect tinged with a steely determination.
Toward the rear of the army came the baggage carts, hauled by their slaves. Marcellinus stared hard-faced as the Hesperians trudged by with their shoulders to the wheel, but none of them showed disrespect to the dead man. Most, in fact, looked quite sickened at the spectacle.
“That man,” said Marcellinus. “Fuscus. Fetch him.”
Pollius Scapax strode into the baggage train, cuffing men aside until he reached the word-slave. He hacked through the cord that bound Fuscus to the cart, and hauled him out unceremoniously. The five braves that remained tethered to the vehicle leaned into their task even more grimly.
Marcellinus drew his gladius and whacked Fuscus on the back of his thighs with the flat of the blade, driving the word-slave to his knees. Fuscus bit off a scream as he found himself face to face with Sigurdsson, but cried out in earnest when Marcellinus struck his bare shoulders another blow.
“This is what your people do? The cowardly maiming of captives?”
Fuscus gaped at the ruined Norseman. “Is not!”
“We don’t need you any more, verpa. Know why? Because there will be no more talking to your people. Only killing.”
“Marcellinus, man, let him be. His kind didn’t do this.”
Marcellinus whirled, and the point of his gladius stopped inches from Aelfric’s throat. “What?”
Aelfric took a slow step back from the blade. “Sir, Fuscus here, he’s coastal. His Powhatani are crab-eaters and berry-pickers. The savages hereabouts are of a different stripe.”
“Iroqua,” said Fuscus. “Men of hurt. Many take–”
“More warlike,” Aelfric interrupted. “The savages we’re seeing around here are painted odd, and they move different. They’re real hunters and killers.” He gestured at Sigurdsson’s body. “If the Iroqua got their hands on Fuscus, they’d probably do this to him.”
The Praetor looked down. Fuscus was groveling so hard that he was practically tunneling into the ground.
Marcellinus had sent Sisika alone into this area. The miserable word-slave hadn’t warned him he would be signing the woman’s death warrant. He seized Fuscus by his topknot and dragged the man up onto his knees.
“Look, spare him,” said Aelfric. “God knows we might need–”
Marcellinus slit the word-slave’s throat. He died quickly, gurgling, his eyes bulging almost out of his head as he drowned in his own blood.
“Never mind,” said Aelfric.
Marcellinus swayed. Had he really just slain a defenseless man in anger? Would he have done such a thing anywhere other than this despicable, gigantic, savage land?
He pulled himself together. His legionaries had died more barbarically in the trees and from the air. And here was Sigurdsson, scalped, burned, maimed. Marcellinus let go of Fuscus, and the word-slave’s body tumbled forward onto the ground.
Aelfric was staring. “Something you wanted to say?” Marcellinus said coldly, sword still unsheathed.
Aelfric shrugged. “Me? No. We don’t need him. There’ll be no more talking to his kind.”
“That’s right.”
The atmosphere over the glade remained icy as the last echelons of the Legion straggled past. At the end, Corbulo cleared his throat, stood easy, and broke the silence. “Good. The men are fired up now. I pity the poor red bastards we encounter next.”
Marcellinus nodded tautly. Corbulo and his other tribunes saluted him and the hideous remains of Sigurdsson once more, and rode on forward to rejoin their cohorts.
The Praetor looked down again at the mutilated body of his Norseman, and for the first time on this campaign felt genuinely exhausted. Not just in his body, because physical weariness was a constant aspect of commanding a legion, but also in his soul.
All his life he had fought for Roma, struggled for rank and authority, just to be sent westward into a brutal wilderness on a fool’s errand. To see his men killed slowly, one by one.
Yet again, Aelfric had presumed to stay behind. “They knew the path we’d take,” said the Briton. “They arranged him here, right in our way. You bloody Romans and your straight lines.”
“Gods’ sakes, we want to be predictable,” said Marcellinus. “We know where we’re going. So do they. We want to fight them. Let the scum try to stop us. And in case you’ve forgotten, you’re a Roman too.”
“I wonder what became of the other scouts,” Aelfric said moodily.
Enslaved, perhaps. Or cooked and eaten. Marcellinus would rather not know.
For a moment he felt dazed. Could these savages really not distinguish between soldiers and scouts? Did they intuit nothing of civilized conduct? How could a war even take place without scouts to guide the armies together?
“Cowards,” he said. “An entire landmass of bloody cowards.” Corbulo was right after all.
Marcellinus and his tribune were off the back of the Legion now, guarded only by First Centurion Scapax and four contubernia of trusted soldiers. Normally it would be untenable for a legion commander to be this exposed, but the undergrowth was sparse and the sightlines long. A quarter-mile away, and despite the recent passage of his army, he saw a pair of white-tailed deer meandering through the trees. This was very different terrain from the dense woods that lined the coast of the Chesapica.
The sandals of thousands of marching Romans and the wheels of dozens of baggage carts had beaten quite a furrow into the meadow floor. Marcellinus looked down thoughtfully, then stepped onto undisturbed ground.
“Praetor,” said Scapax. “We must advance and rejoin the Legion.”
Scapax might well worry. By law he faced summary execution if his Praetor came to harm while under his protection. Marcellinus didn’t think it too likely to happen today. Squatting, he slipped his fingers into the rough grass on the forest floor and probed the loam beneath. His hand came up streaked with charcoal and ash.
“They make this,” he said. “D’you see?”
“Let’s go, sir,” Scapax said.
“The natives. They burn away the undergrowth with care, so the deer and elk can graze, and they can see clear to shoot them from afar with bow and arrow. And the trees here: chestnuts, hickory nuts. It’s . . . .” Words suddenly failed him at the magnitude of what he was saying. “This is a park, not a forest. It only looks natural. They tend this. The Iroqua practice land husbandry.”
The centurion came to Marcellinus’s side. “Now, sir, if you please.”
Behind the trees, Marcellinus saw something gliding high and straight on the breeze. He squinted at it, pretty sure it was a hawk and not a man.
“Don’t make me order the good ce
nturion to carry you,” Aelfric said mildly.
Marcellinus turned on him. “You forget yourself! Why didn’t you leave with the other tribunes?”
At his tone, Aelfric quickly stood to attention. “Sorry, sir.”
“You and I, Tribune, we’re not friends.”
“No, Praetor.”
“Your place is with your cohorts.”
“Yes, Praetor.”
“Then get back to them!”
“Yes, sir.” Aelfric made haste to depart.
Straightening, Marcellinus walked back and placed his hand on the shoulder of his maimed scout, looking at Sigurdsson’s eyes rather than his injuries. “Thank you, my friend. Watch the road for us till we return.”
Only then did Marcellinus allow his guards to pace him back into the protection of the Legion.
***
“I heard the speech you made for Sigurdsson earlier this evening,” said Isleifur Bjarnason. “A pretty thing it was. Excellent and rousing. You’ll really take the time to grind the redskins’ bones?”
Marcellinus whirled. He had dismissed his guards for the night and had believed himself alone in his Praetorium tent. But there sat another of his long-missing Norse scouts, on the same blanket Sisika had occupied. His long flaxen hair was filthy and pulled back into a long braid, and his clothes were darkened with dirt and green smears, indicating a great deal of time spent concealed in foliage.
The Praetor recovered his composure quickly, as if men crept up on him every day. “I’ve done it before.”
“I thank you for the tribute, on his behalf,” said Bjarnason. “Thorkell was a good man. But much as it pains me to say it, the loss of one good Norseman doesn’t justify a massacre.”
Marcellinus held the man’s gaze for several moments, then turned and poured wine and water for them both. If Bjarnason had intended to kill him, he’d be dead already. “I’m surprised no one told me you’d returned to camp.”