The anti girl screamed. It was a shrill, terrible sound that cut through the fog of words, Mardina’s own confusion.
And now she saw why the girl had screamed, what she had seen beyond the window. That lifting platform bore, not dolls or dummies as she had imagined—it was a row of children, all around sixteen years old, all richly dressed, with elaborately painted faces and coiffed hair. They lay on their backs, their hands clasped on their bellies. In fact they looked as if they were asleep, their beautiful faces relaxed, at peace.
Mardina, stunned, leaned forward and stared through the window, from side to side. She saw hundreds of children, hundreds of beautiful corpses, stacked on a very long platform. Bodies in vacuum.
Cura whispered, “The artistry is great, as you can see. The children are put to sleep with the utmost gentleness, and the work of the mummification begins immediately. The greatest skill is in delivering faces to look so natural, so peaceful . . . Then the malquis are lodged outside the hull, outside the air, so that no corruption can ever taint them. Thus they begin their second life, undying and preserved forever in the vacuum.”
“You’ve forgotten why we’re here,” Mardina muttered.
Cura glanced at her, and something of the worshipful radiance left her face. “You’re right, of course . . .”
The anti girl started to struggle against the harness that restrained her. The priests tried to calm her, but some of the other children were stirring now, becoming disturbed. One slightly younger boy started to cry. The disturbance was spreading out through the wider circle of courtiers, Mardina saw.
“Now or never,” she murmured to Cura.
Cura nodded. Stealthily, while the attendants were distracted, she began to loosen Clodia’s harness.
And Mardina pulled a headband from Clodia’s brow. She had patiently rehearsed this with Quintus and Michael, over and over before they had come here, and rehearsed it in her head daily ever since. The band, a gift from the Romans’ anti allies, was an array of brilliant blue feathers taken from rain forest birds, the whole contained within a near-transparent cast-off snakeskin. Now she held the band at one end with thumb and forefinger, and carefully slipped off the transparent skin with her other hand, being sure not to touch any of the feathers.
Then, almost casually, she cracked the band in the air, like a miniature whip.
All the feathers came loose and flew away, a linear cloud that quickly dispersed, heading into the crowd of courtiers, in the general direction of the Sapa Inca in his litter. In the weightless conditions the feathers flew in dead-straight lines, but quite slowly, given air resistance. Even now the priest spoke, his voice like the ringing of a bell, and the attendants tried to calm the children.
It seemed to take an age before the first of them brushed the hand of one of the children’s doctors. The instant it touched him he spasmed, his eyes rolled, foam erupted from his mouth—and he drifted, unconscious.
The feathers were coated in a forest toxin that, Mardina had been assured, was potent in the short term, harmless in the long term. And it evidently worked.
Nobody in the wider crowd seemed to notice at first. But when two more courtiers succumbed, and then four, and eight, and people called out, crowded back, yelled in alarm. And still the feathers, almost unseen, drifted among the people with their powerful touch.
In the enclosed space of the windowed hall, the panic started quickly. People screamed and pushed for the exits. From nowhere, it seemed, axis warriors flew out of the air and plastered their bodies over the litter of the Sapa Inca, protecting him with their own flesh, and Mardina saw that some kind of armor, like blinds of steel plate, snapped closed around the litter. Meanwhile the bearers positioned themselves to get the litter out of this place of sudden confusion and dread.
And Mardina, with a passive Clodia clasped in her arms, followed Cura out of the chamber, entirely unseen.
Outside, Inguill was waiting for them. She beckoned. “Come. Your father is waiting, child.” She hurried away.
57
Quintus Fabius, gladio in hand, walked along the front line of his century. He grinned fiercely, and let the men joke with him, nodding their heads in their heavy helmets—those who had helmets at all. Keep them alert during this period of waiting, keep them relaxed—that was the trick.
And check their position and formation.
This ridge, wider than it was long, was deep enough for four ranks. Below the front rank was a respectable slope, up which the Inca were going to have to advance before they even got to the Romans. The legionaries were in an open formation, as they had long drilled, with the ranks offset so the men were standing in an alternating pattern that Quintus thought of as like a chessboard, all the men standing on imaginary black squares and leaving the white clear, so they had room around their bodies to deploy their weapons and support each other.
Some were sitting, and Quintus didn’t blame them for that—save your energy, as long as you responded smartly when the trumpet blast came. Others were eating, hunks of meat or forest fruit. And the men grinned and made hushing gestures, fingers to lips, as Quintus approached one man, Marcus Vinius, a tough fighter when the battle got going but known throughout the century for his laziness around the camp. Now Marcus was sitting cross-legged on the ground, his wooden shield resting on one shoulder, his pilum spear propped on the other, his big bearded head resting in one hand—fast asleep. His neighbor raised his own pilum, as if to clatter it against his shield.
“No,” Quintus murmured. “Leave him be. If a man can fall asleep in a situation like this, he’s braver than all of us. He has to give up his pilum, though. And you, Octavio. You know the rules—no pila today. Because the pila kill, and we’re not here to kill if we can avoid it. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
The centurion walked on to the rear of the century to find Scorpus, hastily installed in the role of optio, stalking the back line, a bristling example of Roman discipline waiting to pounce on miscreants. Meanwhile the medicus, Michael, had set up a kind of open-air hospital farther back from the line. He stood ready with blankets and bandages and his surgeon’s kit of tools, as well as a rack of vials of potent painkiller drugs, extracted from the flowers of the anti forest. He had assistants, a couple of injured legionaries invalided out of the fight, and some of the soldiers’ wives. Quintus nodded to him, and the Greek nodded back. Michael was no coward, Quintus knew, and he was no opponent of the military, which he had grown up seeing impose order throughout a sprawling Empire. But no medicus, having taken an oath to at minimum do no harm, could relish such a moment as this.
And still the Incas did not come.
Quintus stalked back to the left of his front line, to where Orgilius the aquilifer stood with his standard at the appropriate place. Quintus had a small farwatcher tucked in his belt; he lifted the leather tube now to look down on the ranks of Inca warriors, and their commanders at the rear. The soldiers in their units, drawn up in a reasonably orderly way, all looked much the same to him, in their woollen tunics, their helmets of steel with wooden overlays, their armor of quilted cotton with sewn-in metal panels. Their helmets especially glittered with silver and gold decorations. The commanders at the rear were gathered around a table on which rested some kind of model. The senior officers wore red and white tunics with discs of gold glittering on their chests.
“Walk with me,” Quintus snapped to the aquilifer. He led Orgilius back to his own command position, at the front rank’s right-hand end. “I know it’s not tradition, but I want you to stay close today, Orgilius, and advise me. After all, we are fighting a foe unknown in Roman history—except, presumably, for some long lost skirmishes in the mountains of Valhalla Inferior, when we pushed these people out of the way to get at the Xin, our true foe. And you have learned as much about them as any of us.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, there’s more of th
em than us,” Quintus said. “That’s the most basic observation.”
“But we have the advantage of position. And probably experience.”
“I know that, Orgilius. And there’s no sign of them using their projectile weapons, is there?”
“No, sir. It’ll be hand to hand. Sensible in a spacecraft; you don’t use projectiles or fire-of-life weapons. Just like the great days of the Empire.”
Quintus grinned. “Let’s hope it stays that way—and that it does turn out to be a great day, for us. What are those generals doing at the back? What kind of toy are they playing with?”
“The model on the table is their version of a map, sir. They mold it in clay, so you can see the nature of the ground.”
“Hmm. Well, that’s not an entirely stupid idea.”
“Their field commander is called the apusquipay. Supposedly a relative of the Sapa Inca, sir. They have a hierarchy of command—”
“The Incas would.”
“—all the way up to the aucacunakapu, the head of the army, who never leaves Hanan Cuzco.”
“What about their forces? They all look the same to me in those uniforms. Except for those lads with the painted faces.”
“Antis, sir. Specialist archers. Most of the rest are awka kamayuq, taxpayers fulfilling their mit’a. Like conscripts, or a reserve. But again, they have specialties depending on which nation they’re from. The antis use bows and arrows, the Wanka carry spears and slings, the Cuzquenos have bolas and clubs and maces.”
“Ah. I can see the weapons. Like our specialist auxiliaries. You did tell me much of this before—”
“It always helps to see it for yourself, doesn’t it, sir?”
“Indeed it does. The central units seem to have a more standard weapons kit—clubs, axes.”
“They call the axes chambis. Some have whips that they call chacnacs. Those lads are probably huamincas. Veterans, specialist soldiers—not mitimacs—based near Hanan Cuzco, or maybe Hurin Cuzco, or at any rate at the feet of the hubs.”
“All right. But still they don’t fight—we’ll run out of light at this rate.”
“Sir, it might just be that our trick is working. If the girls have managed to create some kind of rumpus up in Cuzco, the top levels of command are going to be distracted, if not paralyzed.”
“Yes. I have a feeling that thinking for yourself is even less welcome in the Inca setup than it is in the Roman.”
“Also they like their rituals. Before a battle they generally have a couple of days of sacrifices, fasting. We haven’t given them a chance to do that.”
“I’ll send a note of apology on behalf of the Emperor.”
“I know how to get them going, sir.” It was Marcus Vinius, stepping tentatively from his second rank through to the front.
“Marcus Vinius! Good of you to wake up and join the party.”
“Sorry about that, sir. But I was having this lovely dream. I had this anti woman in my arms, slippery as a snake she was, and then—”
“All right, soldier,” snapped Orgilius. “Get to the point. What are you doing stepping out of your rank?”
“Told you, sir. I know how to get those Incas mad.” He went to the front of the ridge, set down his sword and shield—and lifted up his tunic, exposing bare legs above the strapping of his boots. “Hey! Pretty boys! Here’s what I think of you!” He pranced up and down, flashing his legs and pulling his tongue, and the men behind him hooted and jeered.
Orgilius grinned. “Actually he’s right, sir. That’s a grievous insult to any Inca.”
And, indeed, Quintus saw that Marcus’s antics were evoking a response from the Incas. Some of the soldiers, and one or two of the command team, were staring, pointing at the Romans. He rubbed his chin. “Well, Achilles had his heel . . . All right, Marcus Vinius, back to your rank. Now then, front rank, shields and weapons down on the ground; you saw the man . . .” He grabbed his own tunic. “Follow my lead. Now!”
The entire front rank bared their legs and capered, while their comrades in the rear ranks rattled their swords on their shields, and yelled abuse in whatever Quechua words they knew. Only Orgilius, with his eagle standard on its staff beside him, stood back, laughing with the rest.
It seemed no time at all before the Incas’ clay trumpets began to be blown, their sound like the voices of monsters drifting across the broad valley.
Quintus picked up his shield and sword. “That’s it, lads. Come at us in a rush, with your blood up, and your commanders already uncertain of themselves and now itching at the humiliation . . . Well done, Marcus Vinius, well done—”
“Sir!” snapped Orgilius. “Missiles on the way!”
• • •
Without waiting to see for himself, Quintus stepped back into the front rank. “Close ranks! Shields up! Come on, you slugs, move, move!”
He heard the hoarse voice of Scorpus, his field optio, yelling for the back rows to get into formation. Soon it was done—there was a roof of interlocked shields over the Romans’ heads, and a wall before them.
Quintus crouched to see out. The missiles were arrows coming from the right, and stones from the left, for now falling short. He called over to Orgilius, “So they’re sending in their auxiliaries first. Archers and slingshots—”
“The antis and the Wanka, sir.”
“Just what I’d have done, if I had any.”
The mood had changed in heartbeats. Nobody was laughing now, nobody posturing. The men huddled determinedly under their wooden shields, each looking to his companions for mutual aid. Quintus heard one man noisily vomiting, and that was a good sign; that was normal too. He glanced out again. “They’re closing . . . ”
Now the projectiles fell on the shields, clattering, battering. The stones from the slings were a harmless hail, though they made you keep your shield up, but the arrows were heavier, and came from a greater height. To Quintus, holding up his own shield, it felt like each landed with a blow like a punch to his shield-bearing arm. The shields had been the best he could get made at the ayllu, but they were only wood, and some of the arrows in the storm that fell found a weak spot, or a gap in the wall. He heard the ghastly, meaty sound of arrows hitting flesh, and men screamed and fell—but the ranks closed up immediately to close the gap. Flowing like oil, he saw with approval, glancing back, just like oil.
“The auxiliaries have stopped advancing, sir,” Orgilius called through the noise. “Here come the infantry, the veterans, right up the slope toward us. But the auxiliaries are keeping up the fire.”
“Then we’ll have to fight with shields raised,” Quintus yelled back. “Hear that, you men? We’ve trained for this; you all know what to do.”
“Just as well old Titus Valerius isn’t here, though, sir,” called Marcus Vinius. “With that one arm of his. You couldn’t even strap a shield to his stump. Why, he’d be better off fixing it to his—”
“All right, Marcus,” Quintus snapped, huddling under his own shield, his arm rapidly tiring as the pelting of arrows continued. “Save the jokes for the Incas when we have them on the run.”
“Right you are, sir—”
“The huamincas are closing,” Orgilius yelled. “Almost in range.”
Quintus shouted, “Front rank, ready. Make every blow count, men; there’s more of them than us—for now! But remember, aim to injure, not to kill. Injure, don’t kill . . .”
That was a hard command for any experienced legionary to absorb—and that was why the men’s precious pila, which killed from a distance, had been banned for this encounter—but Quintus, even as he had prepared for this clash, had been thinking of the longer term, of a time when he would need to argue for mercy for his legionaries, who, after all, were never going to leave this place, whatever the outcome of the battle. If they could show restraint now, they might be shown tolerance in the future.
And here came the Incas, at last.
“Advance!” yelled Orgilius. “Front rank advance, advance!”
With the rest of the front line, Quintus raised his shield so he could see, and he ran down the slope with the rest of the front rank of the Romans, twenty or thirty paces, shields lowered. They slammed into the lead Inca warriors. Their sheer momentum and the advantage of height helped the Romans halt the Inca charge, and even push their foe backward down the hill, back into their own ranks, which turned into a confused crowd of struggling men.
The fight closed up in a static line, a bloody friction.
Trying to keep his shield in the air against the arrows and slingshot stones that still flew, Quintus hacked with his gladio at the man in front of him, aiming for the bare legs under the armored tunic. He struck flesh and the man fell—but another took his place, standing on the torso of his still-alive comrade, and Quintus found himself parrying blows from a long-handled axe with his sword. The Incas had whips, too, and the crack of one such weapon caught him across the back. But the trick was to step inside the arc of the whip so it became useless, and to close with the man himself.
There were men at his back now, the second rank of Romans, not pushing hard but yelling support, and prodding with their swords. When a Roman did fall, a man from the rank behind stepped up to take his place, and the third rank filled in behind him, just as they had been trained. Even as he fought, hacking at what felt like a solid mass of Inca flesh in front of him, Quintus was aware of the wider formation of his men, how they kept their shape, the chessboard pattern, designed to give each other room to swing the gladio, or thrust with the pugio. Quintus could even hear, over the screaming cacophony all around him, the raucous voice of Scorpus still yelling at the rear rank to keep its formation, not to press, to keep the shape, to plug the gaps.
This battle was worth the fighting—he’d understood that as soon as he’d grasped the nature of the strange history-switching conspiracy web in which humanity seemed to be enmeshed. All they could do was fight, in the end, he and his men. But if in fighting this miniature campaign—even if none of them survived, in the end—if the last of the Legio XC Victrix did something to loosen the grip of that terrible empire-toppling abstract force of which the ColU had spoken, he knew in his heart, in his guts, it was worth it.
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