by Alan Smale
He ran slightly to one side and slowed to a jog. The women sprinted past him.
Ahead, Marcellinus saw the silhouettes of six men in tall headdresses, turning. Beyond them the Great Mound of Cahokia loomed.
Howling their battle cries, the women crashed into one of the Iroqua war bands. From the left another group of Iroqua appeared, the group of four, dashing back from the environs of the city. Marcellinus knew they had seen him and stopped running. He gulped air deep into his tortured lungs and lifted the spear, bracing himself and trying to summon back the blood fever he had felt earlier. He had almost nothing left. But he had gotten lucky before. Perhaps he could be lucky again and drag one of the Iroqua down into death before the rest of them chopped him into pieces and took his scalp.
As they ran toward him and his breathing calmed, Marcellinus heard shouting from the city. Dogs barked, and the next moment brought the clangor of stone being beaten against metal. Cahokia was rousing to face the Iroqua; the enemy war party’s nighttime killing spree was over. But any Cahokian aid would arrive much too late for Marcellinus. Wounded, without armor, armed only with a spear and a dagger, he now faced four Iroqua warriors.
An arrow sped past his shoulder and embedded itself in the ground just a few feet away. Marcellinus actually heard its whooshing sound as it cut the air. More arrows came, and the Iroqua scattered, ducking and weaving but still running toward him.
Marcellinus hurled his spear. Pain affected his cast, and the spear wobbled in the air. It was neither as heavy nor as sharp as a Roman pilum; it struck the chest of the nearest Iroqua and knocked him to his knees, but the man wrenched it away and pushed himself upright again.
The next warrior barged Marcellinus’s shoulder and sent him sprawling. An ax blade swished by dangerously close to his head. Marcellinus tried to grab the arm that held it but missed. His pugio had been knocked from his hand, and he was disarmed, too winded to fight.
His only hope was that the Iroqua brave would cut his losses and flee from the Cahokians. That hope was dashed when he felt the Iroqua’s knee pressing into his chest, holding him down. The native headdress he still wore was ripped away, and a rough hand yanked at his hair. Marcellinus was about to be scalped, still alive.
Marcellinus punched at the man, a glancing blow that was largely ineffectual. Dizziness claimed him. Perhaps twenty feet away he heard another man’s bellow of pain, a woman’s scream of rage and triumph.
All at once the night was full of sparks.
A burning arrow exploded into the ground to his right, setting the grass afire. Marcellinus felt the thud through their joined bodies as a second arrow buried itself deep in the Iroqua’s back. His face contorting with surprise and pain, the Iroqua tumbled onto him, sending another flare of agony through his rib cage.
The hawklike shape of a Catanwakuwa flew over them, its baleful eye glowing. No, not an eye but a lantern, and as Marcellinus tilted his head to watch, its pilot dipped an arrowhead into the light and sent another flaming arrow earthward.
Two more Cahokian wings swooped by. Their lanterns enabled them to see each other, removing the threat of a midair collision as well as providing flame for the arrows. Fire-lit arrows helped them establish range and correct their aim.
Marcellinus lay still, panting, as those fireflies danced. The body of the Iroqua rested on top of him, quivering as his life drained away into the dirt. Marcellinus savored the man’s death. His part in this battle was done, and if he shoved the body away and tried to stand, he risked getting a flaming arrow in his own back for his pains.
At least one of the Cahokian women had survived the fight. Marcellinus could still hear her voice, calling up to the falcon warriors who circled overhead.
Hawks landed, their pilots running in midair before their feet hit the ground. Bows up, the tattooed Cahokian warriors surveyed the scene. One of them nocked an arrow and took careful aim. His shot clearly flew true, for he did not need to shoot again. Turning, he saw Marcellinus.
The falcon warrior approached him. The wide wing structure still rested on his back, blocking out the sky.
Rather feebly, Marcellinus waved.
“Gaius fight,” Marcellinus said. “Iroqua-Iroqua, trees, dead Iroqua. Gaius run. Man, seven …” Damn. He did not know his numbers in Cahokian, so he held up fingers, then gestured a throat cutting. Woman-and-woman … He mimed being bound at the wrist and pointed at the woman from the homestead who was thirty feet away, weeping, babbling her own story through her tears.
He sat on the southern edge of the Great Plaza. The Cahokians had dragged him there with scant ceremony, along with the corpses of the Iroqua. Marcellinus wanted to see how many Iroqua dead there were to make sure they were all accounted for, but his Cahokian captors shoved him back onto the ground when he tried to stand. The hubbub in the plaza was considerable, confusion still reigned, and the four grim-faced Cahokian warriors who stood over him had their weapons at the ready.
Marcellinus tried again, doing the hand-talk as he spoke. Most of his speech lapsed into Latin, for he remembered few of the Cahokian words the children had taught him. His gestures should have conveyed his meaning, but he knew he was only partially understood.
Around him Cahokia was alive with lanterns. Dozens of wings still soared overhead, scouring the outskirts of the city for other enemies. In the relative cool of the night the Catanwakuwa had little opportunity to gain height, and many falcon warriors walked their wings back to the mound to be launched again.
A tall, well-muscled brave appeared and said something to Marcellinus’s guards. At his arrival the men stopped hurling questions at the Roman and handed him a pot of water instead. Marcellinus drank deeply and on lifting his eyes again saw Tahtay running toward them as fast as his legs could bring him.
“Thank Juno,” Marcellinus said.
“Hand-talk, hand-talk, hand-talk,” Tahtay panted, and Marcellinus began it all again. Every few sentences Tahtay would stop him and babble away to the tall Cahokian, then beckon impatiently for Marcellinus to continue. To his frustration, it was at this late stage that Marcellinus discovered that Cahokians and Romans used different methods for counting on their fingers and that his numbers were being misunderstood, so he drew lines in the dirt to indicate the number of Iroqua instead.
“Question, two Iroqua, dead,” Tahtay said once they’d struggled through to the end of the story together. “Where?”
Marcellinus pointed into the night. Tahtay gestured No and pointed at the ground.
“Really?” said Marcellinus. Would the Cahokians understand a map?
Apparently so. He sketched it out in the sand of the plaza; a pebble became the Great Mound, a small square he scratched out with his finger became the plaza where they sat. He thought a little, then drew in the features he had run past. “Trees here. Trees. Corn. Trees. More corn. Four houses, men of Cahokia, all dead. Women, that.” He pointed at the woman who, as it happened, was pointing at him at the same moment in her own much more coherent retelling of the tale. “Trees. The Iroqua-Iroqua I killed, dead, here. Here.”
“Question, dead?” Tahtay pointed vaguely at his body.
Marcellinus touched his gut and the back of his head. “Iroqua One.” Then he touched his chest and mimed a spear point going into it. “Iroqua Two.”
The tall man grunted and went to talk to the woman.
“Hotah?” Tahtay said. Marcellinus was holding his stomach, probing at his damaged rib. It hurt like hell, and he was having trouble taking a full breath. He knocked twice and taught Tahtay the Latin for “pain,” “cut,” and “wound,” learning the hand-talk in return. These were the words they needed right now.
Having heard the woman’s story, the tall warrior returned and spoke again. Tahtay said, “Question. Gaius fight Iroqua?” He gestured, shrugged, hand-talked the gesture for Question again, and shook his head.
Well, why had he done it? It was a fair question. Marcellinus stared out into the night, at the milling braves, feeling
the pain of every one of his wounds.
“Hotah? Gaius?” Tahtay poked his shoulder.
“For gods’ sakes, Tahtay …”
“Why Gaius fight Iroqua?”
“Because … Because I did not want any more Cahokians to die. All right?”
Marcellinus paused. He hadn’t done the hand-talk, and Tahtay generally relied on the combination of both, but the boy had understood and was already explaining it to the tall brave.
The brave stared at the Roman for a long moment, then spoke an order. The man carrying the pugio placed it at Marcellinus’s feet, and two of his guards jogged away into the night while the remaining men stood at ease, looking around them at the mob of their fellow Cahokians.
“Good,” Tahtay said. “Finish. All done. Gaius sleep.”
Gratefully, Marcellinus lay down on the hard-packed dirt and sand. His mind still buzzed and his body was a single living mass of pain, so he knew he would not really be able to sleep, but the rest was welcome.
Yet when he opened his eyes, the dawn light was already coloring the plaza pink and gold, the men and Tahtay had gone, and a young woman he had never seen before had cut away his bloody tunic and was dressing his wounds.
Marcellinus stirred, but the woman pushed him back down. Would nobody in this town let him be? Irritated, Marcellinus hand-talked I, See, Cut, and reluctantly she let him twist his head up to look.
His stomach wound was several inches long. The Iroqua’s chert blade had not scored him deeply, but the edges of the cut were ragged. “The dangers of a blunt instrument,” said Marcellinus, relieved.
The woman gestured No in incomprehension, and Marcellinus lay back down and let her wash and bind it and apply the thick white salve from a pot. Wound, he signed, pointing at the rib so she would know about that, too, though no salve she could apply would help it heal. Then, in the growing light of morning, she saw the bite mark in his calf and grimaced, raising her hand up to her mouth.
Being alone with her made Marcellinus uneasy. She was slim, strong-featured, and attractive, and he was unable to meet her eye. A few other Cahokians were coming out of their houses to fetch water and firewood, but none were anywhere near them.
She said something, pointed at his leg, made a slashing motion.
“Really?”
She pointed again and grimaced.
Marcellinus nodded and handed her the pugio. She washed the blade thoroughly, gave him an apologetic look, and began to cut into his calf.
Even though he knew her intention, he had not expected it to hurt so much. He cried out and grabbed at her, almost knocking her over.
She put her hands on her hips and lectured him in Cahokian, braids bobbing on her shoulders.
Marcellinus sucked in a deep breath, trying to fill his lungs despite the pressure from his damaged rib. He wasn’t a child; he understood that bite wounds could easily get infected. He wasn’t going to get any better medical attention than this. He should be grateful someone was even trying.
He ducked his head and hand-talked, Sorry. Thank you. Yes. Sit, Leg. Cut, and she understood. Resting all her weight on his thigh to stop him from flinching away from the blade, she bent to her task again.
The pain was awful, but Marcellinus withstood it without embarrassing himself any further. Once she had removed an Iroqua tooth and cleaned up the wound to her satisfaction, she painted it with a dark liquid from one of her pots that stung like Hades and then sewed it with five stitches of a bone needle and thin sinew and bound it with the white salve.
In the meantime the bright sun of Nova Hesperia had risen to bathe the Cahokian plaza. People were watching. Marcellinus felt embarrassed.
The woman stood and reached down to him. He tried to get up without her help, but the pain was excruciating. She had to put all her weight into it to haul him onto his feet, and then he had to lean on her for the long walk back to his hut. She was dusty and sweaty and smelled very female, and Marcellinus was humiliated to realize that this was the closest he had been to a woman in many years.
In his hut she lowered him gently onto the mattress, lifting his legs as if he were a geriatric. Marcellinus tried to shake off his shame.
“Gaius,” he said.
She looked at him thoughtfully. He said it again, pointing at himself, and gestured Thank you.
Unexpectedly she grabbed his chin with her thumb and forefinger and looked deep into his eyes. Marcellinus cringed at her unblinking gaze. She turned his face to right and left, studying him in a wordless interrogation. Again Marcellinus felt uncomfortable at being alone with her and deeply saddened. “Stop,” he said, and hand-talked, No, Please, Stop. Please.
Sniffing, she looked instead at the dressing over his stomach and probed the wound on his calf. Poked briefly at his older leg and shoulder wounds, shaking her head again at the mess he was in. She gestured, No Walk. Sleep.
As she stood, Marcellinus found there were tears in his eyes.
She half turned in the doorway and gave him another long stare. Again he avoided her eyes, staring at the ground.
She waved to attract his attention. Pointing to herself, she said: “Chumanee.”
He hand-talked, Thank you, but she was already gone.
Chumanee woke him again when the sun was high. Wiping the salve off his leg, she washed the bite wound even more thoroughly, daubed more of the dark liquid on it, and bound it again with the salve and a length of woven cloth. Marcellinus kept his eyes closed throughout.
When she was done, she did not leave but stood and waited.
“She say, ‘Why you fight us?’ ”
Marcellinus opened his eyes. Chumanee stood before him, mute. Behind her stood Tahtay.
“Uh,” said Marcellinus.
“You, big army. Why fight us, Cahokia?”
Marcellinus did not reply. He had no answer for her.
“We do nothing. No blood between you and us peoples.”
Marcellinus struggled to sit up. Chumanee did not help. The hut quivered around him.
“The Iroqua killed many of my men,” he said, and even now felt a brief surge of anger at the cowardly sneak attacks his legion had suffered.
Chumanee spoke. Tahtay said, “We are not Iroqua.”
“I know.”
“Why fight—”
“I had orders to take your land. Uh, my chief, say, fight …” Hesitantly Tahtay began to translate, but Marcellinus held up his hand. “Wait. No. That’s not a reason. Or an excuse.”
“Huh?” Tahtay said. “What say?” He knocked on his arm.
Marcellinus did not want to speak. The truth of it was that he had needed Cahokian corn to feed his army over the winter. He had needed to take what these people had so he could give it to his own troops. The military equation had been brutally simple.
And it shamed him that he had allowed it to come to that. Here in the wilderness of Nova Hesperia he had found a city. Considered barbarians by his superiors in Rome, clearly, but nonetheless a people proud and well organized enough to face his Legion in battle on equal terms. Perhaps “barbarian” was an uncharitable term, after all.
And they had defeated him, using flying machines that a year ago would have been beyond his wildest imagining. For that, if for nothing else, they deserved Marcellinus’s respect.
That, he realized at last, was why he had turned back. The Cahokians had slaughtered his Legion, but they had done it fairly, with military might, skill, and honor. The Iroqua had butchered his men in the trees and tortured and burned his scout.
It was because of Marcellinus that the Iroqua were testing the Cahokians’ inner defenses. He had potentially weakened the Cahokians and made them more vulnerable to Iroqua predation.
The Cahokians had his grudging respect. Enough of them had died already because of him.
He hand-talked: I, Speak, Bad. Wrong words.
“What are right words?”
He thought about it. Eventually he said in Latin, “Sometimes, when two armies meet, big w
arriors, they must fight. We had come so far. Long way. Yes? Many moons.”
Tahtay did not translate. He just stared.
“What?” Marcellinus said.
“Those are right words? I say to Chumanee?”
“No. Those are the wrong words, too.” He turned to Chumanee. “Look. It just got away from me. The march, the heat, and the impossible distances, the constant hoping for gold. The need for supplies. The Iroqua attacks. Corbulo’s mutiny. By the time we got here to Cahokia … there were no choices left.”
Chumanee stared. Tahtay shook his head. “Hand-talk?”
“Tell her Gaius is sorry. But Gaius has no answer for her.”
Chumanee was standing very close. Her face was dark; he thought she might slap him. He did not move.
Once, not so very long ago, any native woman who struck him in anger would have died instantly. But Marcellinus was no longer a Praetor.
Instead she touched the back of his hand as if checking to make sure he was real, and at the delicacy of her touch Marcellinus did flinch away from her. She spoke now, very quietly. A chill of horror went up Marcellinus’s spine. Gods, he thought. Please let her be vowing to slit my throat in the night. Don’t let her pity me. Please.
The boy coughed. “She say you are good man among bad men, Romans. She say that why you …” Tahtay waved his hand around his head.
“Confused? Crazy?” Marcellinus closed his eyes. “No. That’s not right. I’m not a good man, Tahtay. Tell her that.”
The Cahokians spoke again. Marcellinus felt the movement of the air as Chumanee stood, caught the aroma of her on the air, heard the rustle of the deerskin as she pulled back the door curtain and stepped up out of his hut.
He opened his eyes. Tahtay was looking at the floor, acutely embarrassed.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Marcellinus said.
“Chumanee say, ‘Maybe tomorrow you will be.’ ”
The room hazed up around him again.
“Go now, Tahtay,” he said quietly.