Clash of Eagles (6 page)

By contrast, Lucius Domitius Corbulo was a member of an old patrician family and a distant descendant of that Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo who had served as a Consul under Caligula, commanded the armies of Germania Inferior under Claudius, and been appointed Governor
of Asia under Nero. One day he would make the leap from army to politics and perhaps end up a Consul himself. Perhaps it was predictable, then, that Corbulo was the most alert to their place in history. More than any other Roman present he felt the full sweep of Roman power. But Corbulo was also alert to money and sought riches as well as glory. His star was rising within the Imperium.

But as Marcellinus and everyone around him knew, at forty-one years of age, twenty-five of them in the army, this would be his last campaign and his last chance for a military triumph to provide him with a comfortable retirement. Marcellinus would do his utmost to succeed. The Imperator knew his man.

When Hadrianus had picked Marcellinus to lead the 33rd into the new land across the Atlanticus, Marcellinus had chosen Corbulo to be his First Tribune. Corbulo had served under him in his Sindh campaign, and Marcellinus knew him as a man of breeding, spotless record, and endless anecdote. If Marcellinus had to dine with someone for months on end, he wanted him by all means not to be tedious.

So what did it say about Marcellinus that he now spent more time with Aelfric the Briton and Sigurdsson the Norse scout than he did with the Romans among his tribunes? The truth was that his Roman compatriots reminded him too much of the corruption and casual nepotism that had increased again under Roma’s most recent Imperators. At least Corbulo had overcome his silver spoon to become a tribune of considerable quality, but Tully and Fabius, each barely twenty-five years of age, had gained their tribuneships through patronage and cronyism. In contrast, Marcellinus and Aelfric had scaled the ranks through skill and bravery and sheer bloody-minded hard work. Not for the first time, Marcellinus was blazing his own social trail. A practice, he recalled, that was not without risks.

“You didn’t tell me about the wings,” said Marcellinus.

Fuscus gulped. The Praetor’s pugio was at his throat, and the word slave was rammed back against the wooden walls of the cart he’d spent the day helping to haul across his own country.

“Not know,” Fuscus whimpered.

“Oh? ‘People of Hawk and Thunderbird will drop on you’? Words chosen carefully. Aren’t you a clever rascal, Fuscus. ‘Man of smart,’ no?” He pushed the blade a little harder.

“No! I stupid man!”

“That’s right,” said the Praetor. “So, what next? How soon comes the next surprise from your people?”

“Mercy!” said the word slave, his eyes full of tears. “Mercy!”

Aelfric ambled over. “Sir, not to stand up for the little weasel, but Fuscus is quite likely farther from his birthplace now than he’s ever been before. I doubt he knows much more about this place than we do.”

Marcellinus glared at the interruption, but he recognized the truth when he heard it. Anything Fuscus knew would be hearsay, tales told over a campfire. He’d established long ago that the little runt knew nothing substantive about the Great City. But it had been worth a try.

The Praetor dropped his word slave on the ground, giving him a kick for good measure. “All right, Fuscus. One more chance. One!”

“You do know there’s no gold ahead, right?” Aelfric said quietly as they walked away. “Fool’s gold, maybe. A coppery mirage or two.”

“Hush,” said Marcellinus, though the men nearby were hard at work getting the castra situated. “Such talk is treasonous.”

He was only half joking. Few of his common legionaries cared much for the lofty ideals of global conquest and would be indefinitely content to molest and slaughter barbarians. Their battle with the flying men had been a novelty. But by now they were marching on half rations across a largely uninteresting and seemingly endless plain interspersed with forestland that would be equally boring if not for the danger of being picked off and slaughtered by hidden braves.

Aelfric tutted. “You still cling to the hope that these simpletons are hiding cities of gold? You know better. You had to show that woman what gold was. She’d never seen it before.”

“The gold is just over the horizon,” Marcellinus said with a straight face.

“It always is.”

“Maybe we’ll find them something else worth the effort,” said Marcellinus.

“ ’Course you will,” Aelfric said. “That’s your job. But you might want to plan ahead for what that’ll be.”

At the rate their supply wagons were lightening, his men might just be glad enough of a good meal. “You’re a real bearer of good cheer tonight.”

“One more word,” said Aelfric. “Corbulo.”

Marcellinus sighed.

“The centurions are reporting rumors of him freezing up during the ambush. Panicking. Not giving timely orders in the heat of battle.”

“I hear rumors about giant rodents, too,” Marcellinus said carefully.

“Oh, I didn’t say I gave them any credence,” said Aelfric. “I mean, a veteran like Corbulo? It’s surely nonsense. But I thought you should know.”

“Right.”

Up the Cardo they saw Leogild and Corbulo step out of their respective side streets and head toward the Praetorium tent. “Speak of the devil,” said Aelfric.

“He feels the same way about you,” Marcellinus said.

“Does he, now?” Aelfric said thoughtfully, and Marcellinus kicked himself. Once again he’d spoken too freely.

He nodded to Aelfric and walked on, vowing it would be the last time he’d make that mistake.

Once his meetings with his quartermaster and tribunes were over, Gaius Marcellinus liked to walk the camp. A Praetor should never be a stranger to his men, not if he wanted to keep his command and his neck intact.

At dusk the castra was alive with sound, movement, and purpose as the men set their campfires to cook their fry bread and soup and corn hash.

Marcellinus strolled among the tents, past the cook pots and the knucklebone games. Around him, men were sharpening blades, polishing armor, tightening a strap, hammering a new sole onto a sandal,
lancing a boil or a blister, and trying to rinse stiff sweat stains out of their tunics. Some were writing letters that they would not be able to send for months to sweethearts who probably had already forgotten them. The Praetor smiled wryly. How many heartfelt letters must the younger Marcellinus have written to Julia from the scorching deserts of the Ayyubid Sultanate while she was disporting in Roma with wealthy businessmen?

Even more men than usual were paying their respects at the temples. Soldiers had died today, and perhaps their piety 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. 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 his, with similar memories of old campaigns and bygone Imperators, but 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 were 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 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. But 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.

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? Who might they crown as the Legion’s new legate once he was dead?

He pushed the thoughts aside. “If you have a grievance, 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, 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.

“I meant you no harm, sir,” said the auxiliary. “I swear!”

Marcellinus doubted it, 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 the 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.

Apparently, his men also felt the waning power of Roma. The farther west they went with no visible gain or reward, 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 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 gray-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 torture and barbarism. It was an act of appalling atrocity, and judging by the decaying state of the body, it had happened several days earlier. The Romans might not know exactly the route they would take, but the Iroqua did.