The Sea of Grass

by Gilbert M. Stack

  “I need to borrow a dozen of your men. A wagon has broken down back in the line and the owners are going to need help to get it moving again.”

  “My men are legionnaires,” Phanes announced as if he somehow thought that Marcus had failed to understand that. “They are not common laborers to go fix a broken wagon.”

  The young officer deserved to have the haughty expression knocked off his face, but before humiliating him, Marcus tried one more time to reason with him. “And yet, when the legions march they are often accompanied by extensive supply trains. Who do you think fixes those wagons when they break?”

  Reason did not penetrate the young man’s thick skull. “Those are not legion wagons. My men do not—”

  Marcus reached out, caught the man’s earlobe and twisted it hard enough to make it feel like he intended to rip it off.

  Green Vigil Phanes screamed in shock and pain, his body twisting awkwardly at his tried to relieve the pressure on his ear. His caught at Marcus’ wrist with his hand but failed utterly to force it away from his head.

  Marcus dragged the young officer about fifty feet to the side of his disgraceful column and threw him onto the grass while his men and most of the wagon occupants in sight pointed and laughed.

  “Green Vigil Phanes, you are a disgrace to the legion,” Marcus told him in a remarkably calm and almost uninterested voice. “Your men do not know how to march in column. What is worse, despite the fact that everyone in this caravan has been warned that the savages are acting up, none of them are wearing their armor, carrying their shields, or bearing their swords.”

  “We’re just passengers—” Phanes started to say, but Marcus kicked him soundly beneath the chin to shut him up again.

  “Even worse, you antagonized a superior officer by insulting him for making a suggestion regarding the disposition of your men.”

  Phanes spit out a mouthful of blood. “You’re not in my chain of command!”

  “No, I’m not,” Marcus agreed. “But I am a tribune who is going to have dinner with every commanding officer we meet in the forts between here and the Jeweled Hills. Don’t you think it would be advisable to accommodate a couple of reasonable requests to make certain I put in a good word to counter the absolutely abysmal impression you will make when your ragtag column of men straggles in?”

  “No one really expects us to be ready to fight yet,” Phanes protested. “I mean, we haven’t even been assigned to our hands and there are no red and black bands to back us up.”

  Despite the man’s arrogance and utter stupidity, Marcus felt his first nudge of sympathy for the young officer. He crouched down in front of him. “Of course you’re expected to be ready to fight. You’re legionnaires—part of the greatest army in the world. Yes, you have a lot to learn still, but if the savages ride over that low hill right now, you’re expected to form your men in ranks and march into battle.”

  Marcus stood. “Now get up, wipe the blood off your chin, and walk back with me as if nothing has happened. Then call out twelve strong men to accompany me back to the broken wagon. I’ll leave Black Vigil Severus Lupus with you for the time being. Listen to what he tells you and you’ll have these men doing you proud by the time we reach Fort Prime tomorrow afternoon.”

  From the sullen expression on the young man’s face, Marcus did not expect a genuine change of heart. But he got up and stalked back to his men with Marcus and two minutes later, twelve legionnaires were walking behind the tribune to help fix the broken wagon.

  ****

  Caravan Master Burkhard had ridden back to the broken wagon accompanied by a couple of his guards and was firmly berating the soft-looking man as the last of the long line of wagons rolled past. “No, I cannot wait the whole caravan on you. I told you when you joined that you were responsible for your own wagon. You stupid Gente! If you didn’t know how to drive a wagon, you should have hired someone to do it for you.”

  “I did hire a driver, Caravan Master, but he proved to be a base miscreant and abandoned me yesterday morning. I fear that my father-in-law’s competitors must have intervened and paid or scared him off.”

  Burkhard remained unmoved by the man’s problems. “Then you should have paid him more. I can’t hold up the entire caravan for one wagon.”

  “Of course you cannot,” the man agreed with great generosity. “But what you can do is not seek such extreme profit from our misfortune. All would agree that you deserve some gain from your foresight in having brought an extra axle, but one hundred denari—that, my good man, is more than outrageous—it is bordering on the criminal.”

  The flowery speech bounced off of Burkhard’s cool uncaring façade. “It’s what a good axle is worth out here. You should have had a bit more of that foresight you’re praising me for.”

  “But candidly, my good man, I haven’t got one hundred silver pieces. It is—”

  Marcus entered the conversation. “And you don’t need it.” He held up one of the axles that Calidus had brought with them. Burkhard frowned but didn’t object in any way.

  “Oh, thank you,” the man gushed. “Our driver abandoned us yesterday and I’m trying to drive the wagon but I have no experience with the overland route. We had intended to sail up the coast but between the pirates turning the blue ocean red and now the storm season coming to ravage the coastal waters we simply could not find a ship willing to risk the journey. Yet my father-in-law cannot wait for the pirates and the weather to sort themselves out. He will be ruined if we don’t get this cargo through to him.”

  Marcus’ head started to throb from the effort of keeping up with the man’s rapid speech. Bad enough that he spoke in the language of the Gente, but he formed the words so quickly that each flowed into the other without any clear break between them. He was still trying to formulate a reply when a soft feminine voice added her thoughts of gratitude.

  “Yes, thank you, noble stranger. My husband is quite right. It is vital we get this cargo through to my father in Amatista, but our long stay in Dona has depleted our savings and we really have very little to pay you with.”

  Marcus turned and noticed the Gente’s much younger wife—say, nineteen to his thirty—sitting in the tiny bit of shade cast by the broken wagon. She was very noticeably pregnant—so much so that the baby was almost certain to come on their trip north. She wore beautiful amethyst earrings and her fingers were adorned with many rings, but the bracelets that Marcus understood most northern women wore were missing—as if she’d had to sell them off. This was a family in distress, although, perhaps, not quite as grave a situation as they were suggesting.

  “Ah, and where are my manners,” the woman’s husband said. “My name is Señor Alberto Lope and this lovely young flower is my most beautiful wife, Carmelita. And you, our savior, are?”

  “Tribune Marcus Venandus.” He pulled his eyes away from the wife wondering how people could be so utterly stupid. Was there really no option but to take a pregnant woman on a wagon ride across the Sea of Grass?

  “From Aquila?” the man asked as if nothing that Marcus had said could have pleased him more. Then, without waiting for a response, he extended his hand. “My new friend, I am truly pleased to meet you. Your arrival is as welcome as a cool breeze on a hot summer day. Long shall we remember your kindness to strangers that nothing but your virtuous heart compelled you to aid.”

  “Speaking of aid,” Marcus said, “why don’t we see about getting your wagon back on four wheels.”

  “But of course, of course,” Alberto agreed.

  As he opened his mouth to continue describing just how deeply he was in accord with Marcus’ suggestion, the Tribune turned his back on the man and addressed the legionnaires. “What every young man thinks when he leaves home to join the legion is that he’s going to spend the rest of his days locked in pitched battles fighting for the glory of the Republic. And it’s absolutely true that fighting is the most important thing we do, but—and I want you to listen closely to me here—it’s never all tha
t we do.

  “We train for battle, fortify locations, conduct some more training, build roads and bridges, engage in some training maneuvers, wash our uniforms and polish our armor, and train a bit more for battle.”

  By this time all twelve men were smiling as if Tribune Marcus Venandus were the greatest wit who’d ever addressed them.

  “So can you guess what we’re going to do right now?”

  “Help these people get their wagon fixed?” one of the men shouted.

  “No,” Marcus told them. “We’re going to train you how to fix a wagon the legion way—get it back up and rolling as quickly as possible. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Tribune!” all twelve men called out, proving they’d had a good foundation of training before they’d joined the caravan.

  “Excellent!” Marcus complemented them…and he meant it. Attitude was important when working with green legionnaires. Normally he’d leave a task like this to one of his vigils, but Severus and Calidus were both busy elsewhere and it wasn’t like Marcus hadn’t served as both a green and red vigil in his time.

  “Now we don’t want to have to unload the wagon,” Marcus told them. “So follow my directions closely.”

  In a remarkably short period of time, Marcus had assisted the pregnant Carmelita to rise and accompany her husband out of the way of the legionnaires. They then unhitched the team of horses, lifted the corner of the wagon and removed the broken axle. Marcus wished he had something to set the corner down on so that his men could rest, but they were in a great plain with no tree stumps or even a helpful rocky outcropping in the immediate area. So he rotated the legionnaires bearing the weight of the wagon while two of their number climbed underneath the bed and repaired the broken axle mounting. They then quickly remounted the two wheels and hitched the horses up again. In a very short time the wagon was fixed and ready to roll.

  “Marvelous,” Alberto cried clapping his hands together. “Your men are simply amazing. I could not follow the speech you gave to inspire them, but the results do in fact speak for themselves, don’t they?”

  His wife stretched up on the tips of her toes to whisper in his ear. “But, of course, how could I forget such a thing? He reached for his purse. How may I compensate you and your men for your labors this afternoon in the very heat of the day?”

  Marcus had been thinking about that. He didn’t like acting like a merchant. Calidus was good at such things but Calidus wasn’t a patrician either. So how could he handle this affair without compromising his sense of honor?

  “That won’t be difficult at all, Señor Alberto. Anyone who’s been around the legion very long knows that the best way to thank these men is to treat them to a round of beer when we reach Fort Prime tomorrow.”

  “It shall be done!” Alberto announced with a flourish of his hand but he was unable to leave it without further embellishment. “And never has a round of drinks been more gallantly earned than that we shall deliver tomorrow night.”

  Marcus translated the complement—and the promise of beer—to the legionnaires who immediately let forth with a cheer.

  Carmelita smiled up at her grinning husband before returning her attention to Marcus. “And you, good Tribune, how may we show our appreciation for your gallant rescue in our time of need?”

  Marcus had to keep himself from laughing at the flowery speech. It was disturbingly reminiscent of his half-brother’s letters and he began to wonder if perhaps everyone in the Jeweled Hills spoke in this fashion.

  “I’m woefully ignorant regarding the customs of your people, but would it be possible for you to have me to dinner when we reach your home. Señora Carmelita mentioned earlier that her father lives in the city of Amatista. By coincidence I am traveling there to visit my brother. I’m sure we could find some night when the three of us are free to—”

  “Wonderful!” Alberto exclaimed. “We must make it so. What a lovely coincidence that you are traveling to our beautiful city. It is the gateway in the southeast funneling the treasures of the Jeweled Hills to the lower regions of the Jeweled Coast. And now, with all of this piracy, it may play an even larger role if this overland route is to become ever more popular.”

  “I am confused by that,” Marcus confessed. “Amatista is in the southern portion of the Jeweled Hills with only a couple of other minor city states between it and us.”

  “Only Topacio, really,” Alberto corrected him. “There are other cities like Granate and Morganita, but it is only through Topacio’s territory that we will have to pass.”

  “So my question is: Why isn’t this overland route more popular? You said people are only turning to it now because of the pirates. But if this road ends up in your backyard, so to speak, why isn’t it more heavily used?”

  “Oh, I see why you’re confused now,” Alberto said. “I hope you will not be offended when I say that it is obvious that you have only a limited familiarity with commerce.”

  “That is true,” Marcus agreed, “and no, I’m not the slightest bit insulted. Please, explain the preference for the sea to me if you can.”

  “But of course,” the Gente said. “There are two reasons why we prefer the sea route even though it forces us to pay the tariffs on goods passing through the cities of the Jeweled Coast. The first is cost, as any merchant would know. It is always much more expensive to travel overland than it is by water. The costs can be twenty-five, fifty, even one hundred times more expensive to move goods by wagon than by ship. The final amount depends on the bulk of the goods being transported and how long it takes them to arrive. Only the smallest of goods—say a pocketful of gemstones—might be cheaper traveling overland.”

  He waited for Marcus to nod that he understood before continuing.

  “This first reason would be true just about anywhere in the world. The second one is specific to the two routes in question. Until recently, the overland route was considered to be much more dangerous than the coastal passage, and that was before this savage shaman, Teetonka, started rallying the tribes and swearing to drive all the whites off the Sea of Grass.”

  “Excuse me,” Marcus interrupted. “Did you say this Teetonka is rallying the tribes?” He wondered why the official back in the governor’s office in Dona hadn’t mentioned this when he told Marcus of the savages. It was obviously an important development which—if true—greatly increased the danger of the overland route.

  “Yes, he has been trying to gather support to purge the grass for several years now with only modest success, but I am told he raids caravans to prove that the whites—and especially your Aquilan legions—are vulnerable.”

  Marcus relaxed a little. That didn’t sound so bad after all. “So the overland route was more dangerous until the pirates starting acting up.”

  “Yes, the individual cities of the Jeweled Coast had treaties with the so called Trevilian Federation through which they paid the pirates off. There were always a few unexplained attacks, but in the past few months a pirate feeding frenzy has started making the Sea of Grass look safe by comparison.”

  Marcus nodded again. “That makes a lot of sense. Thank you for explaining it to me.”

  “Not at all,” Alberto said. “We are happy to in some small way begin to repay our debt to you.”

  “If I may also ask a question?” Carmelita asked.

  “Of course,” Marcus responded.

  “Will you share the name of your brother in Amatista? It is possible that Alberto and I are familiar with him.”

  “He’s Juan Pablo Cazador.”

  Both Alberto and Carmelita frowned slightly.

  “What is it?”

  Both Gente immediately grimaced in embarrassment. “Please accept my apologies,” Alberto said. “I did not mean to give you the impression that something is wrong. We are, of course, familiar with your brother, as you must have expected.”

  Marcus shook his head. “Quite the opposite—I never dreamed you would know him. Amatista is a sizable city and it seemed an unlikely chance
that you would have even heard his name.”

  “Surely, Tribune, you know your brother is a very wealthy man,” Carmelita asked him. “And he has often served as an official of the Gota government.”

  “Very wealthy?” Marcus repeated.

  “Oh, yes,” Alberto assured him. “In addition to his many business interests, your brother heads the Association—a group of important Gota and Gente families that control the silk monopoly.”

  Marcus tried to remember if his brother had even written about owning businesses. Land? Yes! He had farms and coal mines—the rock that burned. But actual businesses like a merchant would run? That possibility had never really occurred to him.

  “I don’t really know anything about my brother’s businesses,” Marcus told them. He tried to keep the disapproval off his face. “A monopoly does sound lucrative.”

  “Amatista is the largest center of silk production outside of the Qing Empire,” Alberto told him.

  “The Qing do not like the loss of their monopoly,” Carmelita added. “Many think that they are behind the disasters that struck the businesses in Diamonte and Aquamarina.”

  Both of those were cities of the Jeweled Coast, Marcus knew. The Coast, in general, was far wealthier than the inland cities.

  “Your brother basically built the Amatista industry on his own,” Alberto admitted with grudging respect. “He found financial backers, coaxed the experts out of Aquamarina after the fires ravaged the growing silk district and found supporters among the Gota and Gente to establish the trade.”

  “His mother is so proud of him,” Carmelita said, her eyes shining with sudden happiness. “All her life she has had to pretend not to hear the whispers about her half-Aquilan son, but he proved to be the perfect man to build this new enterprise. The Gota liked the Aquilan half of him and when he brought them on board for their political support, he was also able to raise a lot of capital among the Gente dons and señors.”