Princes of the Universe

[CCRunner]

Chapter Eleven: Noble Men

Epilogue – On Nobility

At nearly that same moment, in the High Priest’s residence at the Kong Miao in Antium, Mencius was pressing quill to paper, putting the finishing touches on what he regarded as his life’s work: a dissertation on the nature of nobility.

The Buddhists have an expression which has always puzzled me. ‘If you meet the Buddha in the road, kill him.” Long have I strained to understand such a strange, even odious notion. But now, after many long years, I believe I finally grasp what they mean.

The Master wrote about the Noble Man, a man who lives up to the term through his deeds, not merely through an accident of birth. But the Noble Man does not exist. He is an ideal to which we should all aspire. But he does not exist in this realm, and for that, we should all be thankful. For the Noble Man, so assured of his nobility as the Master described him, would be worse than his opposite, the petty man; the Noble Man, if he actually existed, would be a monster. And we would be entirely justified in killing him, as the Buddhists urge us.

Fortunately, as I said, the Noble Man does not exist. And yet, it has been my very great honour to meet noble men. Very few, mind you, and I wish their numbers were greater.

What sets them apart, you may ask, from the Noble Man? How are these noble men who do exist among us different from the ideal?

They differ in that they do not think themselves noble. They subject all their actions, even their thoughts and motivations, to unwavering scrutiny. They take particular note of where they fall short of the ideal. But they do not despair, or at least not for long; they resolve to do better, to try harder, to live up to the ideal at the next opportunity, and the one after that. In this regard, their reach forever exceeds their grasp.

The Noble Man gives us an ideal to which we can aspire. The noble man gives us something more precious by far: he gives us the hope that we can achieve that ideal.

Mencius sat back, satisfied. He then turned back to the beginning of the work, and wrote just a few lines more.

Dedicated

to Lucius Rutullus Lepidus Aztecus,

noble man.

[CCRunner]

Chapter Twelve: The Merchant

Part 1: The Pitch

“Next!” Caesar said, with a sigh and more than just a hint of impatience in his voice. Before him, a clerk bowed and scurried out through the door.

“Getting tired, old man?” an amused voice next to him asked.

“You’re one to talk, you old buzzard,” he said, glancing at his Consular colleague, who was seated on his left so that Caesar could look into his colleague’s right eye rather than the dark patch that covered the absent left one.

Lucius Rutullus Lepidus Aztecus grinned. Doing so shifted the lines on his weathered but still-handsome face, which was framed by his steel-grey hair, cut short in tight curls that lay close to his head. “I, for one, find these audiences most rejuvenating,” remarked the aged but still-vital senator. He was consul for an unprecedented fourth time at the distinguished age of seventy. “Not to mention entertaining. Better than a night at the theatre, sometimes!” he said with a laugh.

Caesar grimaced. He reminded himself that this custom, of opening the Consuls’ offices to any and all petitioners on each Friday morning, had been his idea. And while most of those who sought a rare audience with him and whichever senator was his partner on the curule chairs that year either had hare-brained schemes or trumped-up accusations on their minds, every now and then, a worthwhile idea came out of it. Rome’s beautiful and inspiring Hagia Sophia, or at least the basic concept for it, had been one of the results of these meetings with common Romans, so Caesar continued the tradition.

“You know, Caesar,” Lucius continued as they waited for the next petitioner to arrive, “I actually think of all the consular duties, I missed this one the most when I was out of office. Hearing the concerns of common Romans—though I should say that since they have to possess the courage to face the immortal Caesar, they’re somewhat uncommon—is always most instructive.”

“Is that why you keep running for Consul, Princeps Senatus?” Caesar asked, referring to Lucius by another one of the many titles he had acquired, that of the leader of the house; implying, in a teasing tone, that he should be happy to rest on his laurels. But he knew, and was glad, that this man would never think of doing such a thing.

“I do so mainly because Claudia is glad to get me out of the house every now and then,” he said, turning to cast a meaningful glance at Caesar. “She complains that I exhaust her otherwise,” he murmured in a low, confidential tone, a proud smile upon his lined face, and a twinkle gleaming in his solitary eye beneath a waggling brow.

“That’s far more information than I really needed to know, you old lecher!” Caesar said, grinning, making his friend and colleague toss his head back and laugh.

Thus, when the next petitioner walked in, he found two Consuls who were also old friends sharing a joke and evidently in a good—and, he hoped, a receptive—mood.

The consuls sobered quickly and turned their attention to him. The man standing before them looked as though he could have successfully sought a private audience with Rome’s Consuls on his own. He was richly dressed in flowing, brightly dyed robes of mauve and purple. The robes were silk, which was difficult to obtain now that Greece’s war with England had cut off Rome’s supply of the fabric. Even more remarkable were the rich, varied colours of the cloth, since they must have been made using dyes from Greece, and Rome had never had a steady supply of that luxury item from the truculent Greeks. It took money, and a lot of it, to obtain clothing like this.

His hair was dark brown and neatly trimmed, his face clean-shaven, as was the Roman fashion. He was of average height and build. The man’s eyes, however, caught Caesar’s attention even more than his flashy clothing: his blue eyes were shrewd, yet bright and lively, as if lit from some internal fire.



“Greetings, Caesar, Princeps Senatus” the man said, bowing low to each of the Consuls, his arm sweeping out wide, then downwards with more than just a touch of theatricality. “I… am Hanno.”

“Just… Hanno?” Caesar said, his lips beginning to curl back into a grin. If nothing else, the man’s dress and manner promised that the meeting would at least be entertaining.

“Just as all the world knows you as Caesar, though you possess other names,” the man said, straightening, “soon the world will know me by that one name, and it will be enough.”

“I see false modesty is not one of your character flaws,” Lucius remarked, amused. “Please, have a seat… Hanno,” he said, waving to one of two chairs in front of the meeting table, “and tell us what brings you before us today.”

“I have a proposition,” Hanno said once seated, wasting no time, “that will fill Rome’s Treasury to overflowing for generations to come.”

Caesar’s arched brows rose. “Indeed?” he said, cautiously, glancing sideways at Lucius, whom he could see was sceptical but intrigued, like himself. It wasn’t the first time they’d heard such a proposition on a Friday morning. Still, something about the man told them that here might be the one person who could actually pull it off. “Go on,” he said.

“What I propose to do,” Hanno said, his blue eyes alight with enthusiasm, “is to put together a trade mission. Take a few ships loaded with the finest goods Rome has to offer—wine, sugar, furs, spices, wool, leather, even dried bananas and salted beef and pork—and take these goods to the distant continent for trade.”

Lucius blinked in surprise. “Are you sure that’s wise?” he asked, frowning. “There’s a war going on over there, you know.”

“All the more reason to make the trip!” Hanno said, spreading his arms as though this was the most obvious conclusion in the world. “Wars produce shortages, of luxury goods in particular—while their availability reinvigorates the fighting spirit, as I’m sure such formidable military commanders such as yourselves would know.”

Caesar ignored the flattery, but was intrigued by the idea. “Aren’t you worried about winding up in the crossfire?”

Hanno drew himself up proudly. “I am a citizen of Rome!” he declared proudly. “That simple fact, and its declaration, is protection enough in every corner of the globe, thanks to you, Caesar, and to men such as your distinguished colleague here. No one would dare earn the enmity of mighty Rome.”

The two Consuls were warming to the man, as outrageous as his plan sounded. Caesar was silently realizing that in Hanno, he may have found a man who matched his own audaciousness, but in business rather than in war or politics.

“Even so,” Hanno went on, as if sensing a need to tender that impression, “some precautions would be wise. That is why I have come to you. Ships capable of making the ocean crossing—not to mention their crews—are expensive. The government of Rome has several at its disposal.”

“Ah,” Caesar said, now understanding why Hanno had come to him. “So you want, what, one galleon, two? Or more?”

Hanno shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. “Not galleons, Caesar. Caravels.”

“Caravels?” Caesar responded, mildly surprised. “Are you certain?”

“They are the precaution of which I spoke. A mighty galleon, to the Mongols or the Greeks, would be perceived as a ship of war, would it not? And since they are well aware of our bonds of friendship with beleaguered England…”

“Ah, I see the man’s point, Caesar,” Lucius said. “We currently have an open borders agreement with Mongolia…”

“…but they have cancelled just such an agreement in the past, and may do so at any time,” Hanno finished the thought for him. “Capricious, those Mongolians,” Hanno said with a grin and a raised eyebrow. “Without an open borders agreement, entering Mongolian or Greek waters in a heavily-armed ship also capable of carrying troops, such as a galleon, would be perceived as an act of war. A much smaller and lightly-armed caravel, on the other hand, can come and go as it pleases.”

“Indeed,” Caesar said, nodding. He was sharp, this Hanno—he understood not just business, it seemed, but international relations as well. “Just how much gold do you think such a trade mission could generate?”

For the first time during their meeting, Hanno looked somewhat uncomfortable. He glanced about nervously. “No offence, Caesar, but in my experience, the walls have ears.” He took a slip of paper and a quill from the table before him, wrote a figure upon it, and handed the paper to Caesar.

The Roman leader glanced at the figure. His fair brows rose, and he gave a low whistle, then passed it to Lucius, who had a similar reaction. And given the vast wealth of Lucius Rutullus Lepidus Aztecus, owner of most of the gold mines on the continent, that spoke volumes.

“Less my own modest profit, of course,” Hanno hastened to add. “It may take several years to accomplish,” the merchant then cautioned the two men sitting before him. “I may have to travel the length and breadth of the far continent, seeking the best deals for our goods.”

These words put the senses of the two Consuls, both old military men, on full alert. For the first time during their meeting, the full force of Caesar’s shrewd, perceptive stare fell upon Hanno. It took all the will-power the merchant possessed not to wither under that fierce yet icy-cold gaze. After subjecting Hanno to several moments of close, uncomfortable scrutiny, Caesar spoke.

“I insist that you do so,” Caesar said.

“Especially if you gain access to Greece,” Lucius added, his lone eye intense, his voice heavy with meaning.

Hanno nodded, well aware that Roman travellers had never been granted access to Greek lands. Their mercurial ruler, Alexander, had granted an open borders agreement when he first met Rome’s envoys. But before any Romans could explore the foreign nation, Alexander had cancelled the agreement shortly thereafter as Rome pursued closer relations with his northern enemy, England. Thus, the country was shrouded in mystery, just as the Aztec Empire had once been. And here, sitting before Hanno, were the two men most responsible for bringing that former empire into the Roman fold. The implications of what he was being asked to do were obvious, though he knew no mention of that must be uttered outside this room.

“I will, of course, send regular dispatches back to Rome, reporting on my progress,” Hanno assured them.

“Yes, you will,” Caesar said, smiling wolfishly now. “And some of my scribes will show you how to write them so that your messages to me are not understood by prying eyes—Greek, Mongolian, or otherwise.”

“So we have a deal?” Hanno said eagerly.

“No,” Caesar said, rising from his chair and smiling broadly. “You’re going to go get us one. And much more besides.”

[CCRunner]

Chapter Twelve: The Merchant

Part 2: A Passage to Mongolia



A few weeks later, Hanno stood upon the deck of the Mercury, the lead caravel in his trade mission’s convoy. He took a deep breath, and the clean, salty air of the great western ocean—the Mare Occasus—filled his nostrils. He was quite proud of the fact that it had only taken him a couple of days to get his “sea legs”.

That was not true, unfortunately, of everyone in his party.

Hanno turned when he heard light but unsteady footfalls behind him upon the wooden deck boards. A small, delicate figure joined him at the railing, weaving unsteadily as the ship rocked in the waves.

“How did you talk me into this again?” Yukio said tiredly.

Her raven-black hair was pulled back into a severe bun to keep it out of her face. Her skin, which was normally the colour of pale gold, had taken on a greenish hue. Her dark, narrow eyes were sunken and tired, having rapidly lost their usual liveliness within the first few hours at sea.

Hanno gently placed his arm around her slender shoulders and laughed softly. “I believe it started when I asked you to marry me,” he said.

“Maybe I should have listened to my father,” his wife said grumpily. “And married a nice Japanese boy.”

“And miss all this?” Hanno said, waving at the broad expanse of empty ocean before them.

“A whole bunch of water?” Yukio remarked, glancing contemptuously at the source of her torment.

“Exactly,” Hanno countered, “that’s all it is, which is why you shouldn’t let it bother you,” he said with a chuckle and an affectionate squeeze of his wife’s shoulders.

The small, delicate Japanese woman looked up at him and smiled. Even though she’d been suffering from sea-sickness ever since they left Rome several weeks before, she still looked radiantly beautiful to Hanno—never more so than when she smiled.

“You always make me feel better,” she said, beaming at him. “Is there anything that dampens your enthusiasm?”

“Just one thing,” Hanno replied, his handsome features growing quite serious. “The thought of losing you,” he said quietly.

“That will never happen,” his wife replied, turning her face towards his.

They kissed just as the ship hit a rogue wave. They broke their kiss and both had to grasp the railing to keep on their feet. Yukio’s complexion turned a shade greener than it had been a moment before.

“Oh, Ecastor,” she muttered. “I think I’m going to…”

“Use the head?” Hanno said, not unsympathetically. “There’s one over there…” he added, pointing, but his wife was already running in that direction.

[CCRunner]

Chapter Twelve: The Merchant

Part 3: Bearing Gifts for the Greeks

“How long do you think this will take?” Yukio asked.

“As long as it takes,” Hanno replied in that calm, reasonable, cheerful tone that often made her want to scream at him.

“Do you ever get upset?” she asked instead.

“The way Genghis Khan looked at you upset me,” he muttered.

Yukio shivered. “I’d rather you didn’t mention that again,” she said, and her husband tenderly put an arm around her shoulder and squeezed her close to him.

The Greek longbowmen guarding the border with Mongolia didn’t seem to know what to do with them, and the language barrier didn’t help. The lack of on-going contact between Greece and Rome meant that few people of either nation spoke the other’s language. So Hanno and his caravan were held up in a ramshackle inn at the border, waiting to see if they could cross it. They’d been waiting there for three days. They’d had to unpack every single camel, and there were dozens of the huge beasts, and open every box and crate for inspection—twice. And still they waited.

Hanno and Yukio walked out of the inn and proceeded to the Greek fort, really little more than a roadside hut housing a half-dozen guards. The caravan had caused the usually-bored guards no end of initial excitement, but now the novelty had worn off and the men had gone back to their dice game while they awaited word from Athens.

As the Roman couple approached the guard house, they noticed a horse trotting down the road that led to Athens. As the horse came closer, they could see a short, squat man sitting atop it. His face was covered by a full black beard with grey streaks, and a long, stained aquamarine robe covered his rotund body. He drew his horse up beside Hanno and Yukio, and as they watched, he dismounted and bowed to them in greeting.

“Hola!” he cried, and his face broke into a huge smile. “You Roman, yes?” he asked in broken Latin.

“Yes,” Hanno replied. “I am Hanno, of Rome.”

“Ah! Is wonderful!” the Greek responded, his smile broadening. “I Zorba. Welcome to Hellas, or Greece, you call it.”

Zorba suddenly stepped forward, threw his arms around Hanno in an affectionate bear-hug, and stood on tip-toe in order to kiss the surprised merchant on both cheeks. He then turned to Yukio and glanced at Hanno expectedly.

“Ah, this is my wife, Yukio…”

“Ah! Wife! Wonderful wonderful. Very pretty!” He said, and Yukio, giggling like a schoolgirl, received the same hug and kisses of greeting, though Zorba did not have to stand on his toes to reach the cheeks of the diminutive Japanese woman. He stepped back from her, eyeing her with admiration, but in a pleasant way that was utterly unlike the leer that Genghis Khan had subjected her to. “Very pretty!” Zorba said again, nodding. He turned to Hanno. “You lucky man! Me? Not lucky. My wife… AHAHAHAH!!” He exclaimed, his eyes widening and body trembling to indicate that his wife was a fearsome creature indeed.

Hanno and Yukio were both smiling broadly. They were warming to this effusive Greek quickly.

“Are you an official of Alexander’s court?” Hanno asked him.

Zorba frowned and shook his head. “Me? Me no official anything. I am… how you say… I buy, I sell…”

“You’re a merchant, like me?” Hanno said.

“Yes! Merchant! Yes yes yes! Merchant. Merchant merchant merchant…” Zorba exclaimed, delighted with his new Latin word. “You come with me. I talk guards, then we cross border. Go Athens. Alexander want to meet you!”
“Really?” Yukio asked. “Alexander sent you?”

“Oh yes, pretty lady!” Zorba said. “Alexander send me here, send me there, Alexander send poor Zorba everywhere.” And the short, rotund Greek mockingly wiped the sweat off of his supposedly-beleaguered brow, making Yukio giggle again.

“But you’re not a court official,” Hanno said.

Zorba smiled at him and winked. “Is no fun being official, no? Is more fun to be getting things you not supposed to get. Hard if you official. Easy if you not.”

“Lucrative as well,” Hanno said, smiling. Zorba frowned, clearly not understanding the word. Hanno raised one hand and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.

At this gesture, Zorba pointed, then smiled and laughed. He reached up and slapped Hanno’s shoulder. “Yes yes yes!” he declared. “You and me, we brothers!” Again, he threw his arms around Hanno and kissed each of the Roman’s cheeks. “Now you come, we talk to stupid guards, then we go.”
Still smiling, Hanno and Yukio followed their new Greek friend to the guard house.

***



“Welcome to Athens,” Alexander said, smiling, greeting Hanno and his wife with a broad smile and a warm handshake.

The immortal leader of Greece was a small man; Yukio found herself able to look directly into his eyes without tilting her head, an unusual experience for the diminutive Japanese woman. He was, nevertheless, powerfully built, with broad shoulders, a barrel-like chest, and strong legs, visible beneath his tunic, his dress very similar to a Roman’s, save for the lack of a toga. His thick, medium brown hair framed a handsome but hardened face; here, Hanno realized, was a man more comfortable on a training ground or battlefield than in a palace.

Yet a palace is where they found themselves, a handsome building of marble columns and floors. Alexander sat down behind a large oak desk, gesturing for the merchant and his wife to chairs on the opposite side.

“It is a rare delight for us to greet Romans here in our kingdom,” Alexander commented.

“In sincerely hope, your majesty, that our visit will signify a change to the historic estrangement of our two peoples,” Hanno said smoothly.

“Well,” Alexander said, “if Rome was to shift away from its unwise alliance with the English, that would be possible.”

“Unfortunately, your highness, I am not in a position to change or comment on diplomatic policy,” Hanno said. “I am merely a humble merchant, selling my wares where I can.”

Alexander laughed. “You may be humble, but as I understand it, what you carry is anything but! Wine, sugar, wool, furs… a most intriguing collection of goods.”

“I am glad you think so, your highness.”

Alexander waved his hand. “Please. I may be an immortal and the ruler of a great civilization, but in my heart, I am a simple soldier. My men call me Alexander. I insist you do the same.”

“If you insist… Alexander.”

The ruler of Greece smiled. “I do. And, also like a simple soldier, I do not like beating around the bush. You have goods to sell; you’re interested in my price. Ptolemy?” he said, looking over his shoulder at one of his chief advisors, an older man, stocky but still vital, obviously a former soldier himself.

“Our offer,” Ptolemy said, and handed Hanno a scroll.



The merchant unravelled it and glanced at the figure. One of his brows raised. It was the exact same amount that Genghis Khan had offered. Had they collaborated? Or was it purely a coincidence? In many ways, it didn’t matter.

“A handsome sum,” he said. “Once I have all the offers, it will definitely be considered.”

Alexander frowned. “What do you mean, ‘all the offers’?” he asked.

“I still have yet to visit your neighbour to the north.” Hanno replied.

Alexander suddenly looked as if he’d bitten into something sour. For a very tense moment, he glowered at Hanno, but the merchant held steadily beneath that withering gaze. Finally, Alexander smiled and laughed softly.

“Do you really think you’ll get a better deal from the wicked witch of the north?” he asked, an amused tone in his voice that sounded forced.

Hanno shrugged. “That is the deal I made with Caesar in exchange for the loan of Rome’s ships: seek the best price from all the potential customers on the continent.”

“Our border with England is closed because of recent hostilities,” Alexander said flatly.

“I understand,” Hanno responded. “However, my party is neither Greek nor English. Surely we could be allowed passage…?”

“That could be difficult,” Alexander said.

Hanno shrugged yet again and decided to call Alexander’s bluff. “Very well. I’ll just send to Ning-Hsia for the caravels…”

Alexander raised one hand. “I said difficult”, he interjected, “not impossible.”

“I am sure Rome will appreciate any assistance you can offer,” Hanno said as he watched the Greek leader’s jaw flexing. “In fact, Caesar may have anticipated this. In any case, he wanted me to offer you this gift from the Senate and the People of Rome.”

Hanno waved a beckoning hand above his shoulder. One of his assistants carried forward three large, leather-bound books which he placed upon Alexander’s desk. The Greek leader eyed the books curiously, then drew one towards him and opened it, reading the title in Latin.

“The Conquest of the Aztec Empire, by Gaius Julius Caesar,” he read aloud, then inhaled deeply. A quick glance at the other two volumes’ spines indicated that they dealt with the Japanese and Spanish campaigns. He flipped through several pages of prose and several maps. “I came, I saw, I conquered,” Alexander read, his voice barely more audible than a whisper. He was then silent for a very long time.

“Your majesty…?” Hanno prompted him.

“Hmmm?” Alexander said, raising his eyes from the book. “Ah, yes. I suppose you’ll want to head north to that accursed excuse for a civilization as soon as possible. Very well then. Zorba will escort you to the border. I hope you’ll keep our offer in mind.”

“Of course, your majesty.”

“And do thank Caesar for the books, when next you see him.”

“I shall,” Hanno said. He bowed as he rose to leave, his wife curtseying.

Once they had gone, every muscle in Alexander’s body tensed, and his face grew livid. He lifted the three heavy books and appeared ready to throw them across the room. Then he seemed to think better of it and dropped them to his desk. He turned and roared in anger and frustration.

“IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME!!” he yelled to the men around him. He slammed his fists down hard upon the top of his desk several times. “CAESAR SHOULD BE THE ONE JEALOUS OF ME!!” This was followed by several blasphemous oaths and more fist-slamming.

His lieutenants watched him, impassive, apparently used to these occasional outbursts of temper. They patiently waited for the storm to pass.
After several minutes, it seemed to do so. Alexander stood, his chest heaving, his hands flat on his desk as he leaned over it.

“Why?” he said quietly. “Why are we so afraid of them?”

His closest friend, a handsome young man named Hephaestion, stepped forward and gently placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Two reasons, Alexander,” he said. “Galleons and Legions.”

Alexander nodded. He gestured towards the books.

“He’s rubbing my nose in it,” he said, his voice quavering. “He’s conquered his continent. He’ll be coming for ours.”

“When he does,” Hephaestion assured him, “we’ll be ready. You’ll be ready. Read his books, Alexander. Study him. It’s the only way you’ll be prepared to face him.” Hephaestion laughed and shook his head. “The fool. In sending you these accounts of his campaigns, he’s given you the very means you need to destroy him!”

Alexander shook his head sadly. “No, my friend. You do not understand. Men like Caesar and I… we measure ourselves against those who oppose us. He wants me to be ready for him. He believes that if he then defeats me, the glory will be all the greater.” Hephaestion’s eyes opened wide as he stared at his friend and leader in shock. Alexander turned and smiled at him. “But don’t worry, my friend. We have time. We’ll be ready. I will read his damn books. I will be ready for him. But first…”

Alexander was then silent and still for several moments.

“But first…?” Hephaestion prompted him.

“But first…” Alexander said thoughtfully, then paused. “But first, send a message to Mongolia. I wish to seek an audience with Khan…”

[CCRunner]

Chapter Twelve: The Merchant

Part 4: The Incident at Argos



Yet again, Hanno and his party found themselves delayed at a border. Unlike the prevailing boredom of the Greek guards they'd encountered at the border with Mongolia, however, the situation at the northern border was decidedly more tense. Greece and England, after all, were at war. In reality, the fighting had ground down to a rigid stalemate, with neither side willing to give an inch of ground--not literally nor metaphorically.

Thus, Hanno and Yukio, along with their companions, camels, and goods, found themselves stranded on the Greek side of the border at the small border town of Argos for several days that threatened to drag on into weeks. Or worse. The Greek border guards regarded them with considerable hostility. Hanno politely but persistently hectored the garrison commander, who kept shrugging his shoulders and asserting that he required official word from Athens. Had the commander sent an inquiry to Athens? No, that would be overstepping the bounds of his orders and current assignment. So had he sent an inquiry to Athens to find out if he had permission to send an inquiry to Athens? At that point the commander had laughed and pointed out that Hanno's logic was eating itself.

Aside from the daily explorations of military inefficiency and argumentation theory, time passed without incident. Hanno and his wife took advantage of the time to tour both the silk and the incense plantations near the town. The Greek owners of each plantation agreed that they’d be overjoyed to do business with Rome—if Athens would agree to it, of course. Aside from those pleasant interludes, however, time dragged on, and the suspicious glares of the soldiers were wearing on Hanno and his party.

"Come to Greece, see the sights, you told me," Yukio chided her husband one night after another dull day spent waiting for the garrison commander to decide what, if anything, to do about these unwelcome travellers that had so inconveniently arrived on his doorstep.

"We saw Athens," Hanno replied, an uncharacteristic note of churlishness stealing into his voice.

"And now all I'm seeing is the inside of a tent," she said, waving upwards at the sloping fabric roof of their meagre accommodations. "When are you going to let me out of here?"

"I don't like the way the soldiers looked at you. I don't think they've seen a woman in months," Hanno replied quietly.

"I know," Yukio said, "but that's not an answer. Besides, maybe I can help with this impasse we've reached."

"How so?"

"Bring me along tomorrow when you meet with the commander," she suggested. "You can appeal to his sense of gallantry. 'My poor little wife is a virtual prisoner, locked away in our tent, lest her feminine whiles inadvertently entice your otherwise-honourable soldiers into forgetting their discipline...' I promise to bat my eyelashes and look forlorn."

Hanno chuckled softly. "How exactly does one lock a tent?"

"I'm sure if there was a way, you'd figure it out," Yukio teased him. "Come on, it's worth a try. Nothing else has worked."

"I'll think about it," Hanno said, then turned over on his side and soon fell asleep.

***

The next morning, after breakfast, Hanno had shrugged and decided that Yukio's idea was worth a try. So he had her put on her most plain and demure dress, braved the stares of the garrison's soldiers, and paid a visit to the office of the garrison's commander. When he got there, however, the commander was not around.

"Where is Captain Stamos?" Hanno asked the tall, powerfully-built Greek soldier sitting at Stamos' desk.

"Is out..," the soldier replied, then his dark, heavy brows furrowed as he obviously struggled to come up with the correct Latin word. "Ins... Inspec..."

"Inspection?" Hanno suggested.

The soldier smiled and nodded. "Inspection! Yes. He go see... um... front. Back later."

"I see," Hanno said. "Well, we won't trouble you any longer." He glanced over his shoulder at the door. A few more soldiers, he noted, had gathered there and were watching them intently. Instinctively, Hanno placed one arm over his wife's slender shoulders, possessively and protectively. Bringing her to see the commander suddenly didn't seem like such a good idea.

"Is no problem," the soldier said affably. "I am Ephialtes. Am... how you say... second in command. Maybe I help?"

"Thank you, but I'd prefer to deal with Captain Stamos," Hanno said. He turned to go, leading Yukio towards the door, but his way was blocked by the soldiers, who refused to stand aside.

"Captain Stamos no help you," Ephialtes said from behind him. "I help you. I help you for price, yes?"

With four strong-bodied soldiers blocking his way, Hanno had little choice. Besides, dealing with someone's 'price' was his bread and butter. It might not be legitimate, but perhaps this rough-looking soldier could help him after all. Hanno turned around to look at Ephialtes while doing his best to ignore the way he could feel his wife's slender body was trembling.

"A price, eh?" Hanno said, allowing a slight smile to play upon his lips. "And what, pray tell, might that be? Some of the wine, perhaps, that we carry? Some of the preserved meat?"

"Is nice," Ephialtes said with a nod. "Army food... puagh," he said, a look of disgust stealing across his dark, rough features.

Then his gaze stole over to Yukio and slowly wandered over her body. In spite of the long dress and robe she was wearing, Yukio suddenly felt naked. She felt her husband's arm squeezing her shoulders more tightly, protectively, and tried to forget about the four soldiers standing, threateningly, in the doorway behind them. This had been her idea, coming here today, and she now thoroughly regretted it.

"Your wife... very pretty," Ephialtes said, his voice low and coarse. He looked over Hanno's shoulders at his comrades and said something in Greek that Hanno did not understand, but from the snickering laughter that sounded behind him, he could well imagine what the dark-featured Greek had said.

"My wife," Hanno said emphatically, his fists clenching at his sides, "is not subject to negotiation." He placed one arm protectively around Yukio's shoulders. He could feel her trembling, though he also knew his brave girl was doing her best to hide it. "Leave her out of this. Do I make myself clear?"

Ephialtes shrugged and smiled, though his affable expression did nothing to mollify Hanno. For a tense moment, no one said a word. Then Ephialtes glanced past Hanno and Yukio at his men and gave them a quick, curt nod.

Afterwards, Hanno would reflect with amazement at how such large men could move so quickly. Before he even knew what was happening, two of the soldiers had grabbed Yukio while another pair took hold of him and wrenched the couple apart. As Hanno watched in growing horror, the men holding his wife dragged her over to the commander's desk. She yelled and struggled, but she was easily overpowered. Ephialtes strolled around the desk, casually unbuckling his belt.

"NO!" Hanno yelled. "Stop! Let her GO!" He struggled with all his strength to free his arms from the vice-like hold of the two soldiers who had accosted him, but they were too strong. "We are citizens..."

Hanno's declaration--his desperate plea--was suddenly cut off as one of the soldiers holding him, apparently grown tired of his struggles and shouts, unceremoniously and brutally punched him in the gut, leaving the well-dressed merchant bent over and struggling to breathe. Hanno could feel tears forming in his eyes, from the pain, from the humiliation, from the horror of hearing his beloved wife's screams, the soldiers' coarse laughter, the sound of tearing fabric...

Then there was another sound. Another voice. A familiar one, coming from the doorway. A man's voice, loud, shouting, no, bellowing in angry Greek. Hanno managed to lift his head and look up. There in the doorway stood the short, fat Greek merchant Zorba, his bearded face a livid red. Hanno nearly burst into bitter laughter at the sight, certain that the huge, burly soldiers would turn on his rotund new friend and tear him to shreds.

To his everlasting astonishment, nothing of the kind occurred. Still gasping down breaths, Hanno slowly managed to straighten and watched in amazement as the soldiers stood frozen as their diminutive countryman continued to yell at them. In a heartbeat, Zorba strode across the room and pushed the three men away from the weeping Yukio, pausing to reach up--the action required him to stand on tip-toes--and smack each of them on the side of the head. He then tenderly pushed Yukio's torn dress back over her bared breasts. He then gently took her arm and led her back to her husband.

If everyone in the room thought the storm had passed, they were mistaken. Once Yukio was back in the arms of her husband, Zorba turned and continued his diatribe, shaking his finger at each of the soldiers in turn, yelling at the top of his lungs. And, Hanno gradually realized, much to his shock and amazement, they were terrified of him. They were actually turning white and trembling. The soldier who'd punched Hanno actually appeared to be on the verge of tears!

Just then, Captain Stamos, a tall dark-featured man with greying temples, walked into his office and barked out a quick question, which Hanno surmised was something to the effect of, "What the hell is going on in here?". Then the Captain spotted Zorba, who was striding angrily towards him, and he, too, appeared suddenly shaken to the core by the little merchant's formidable anger. As Hanno and Yukio watched, the Greek army captain took on the appearance of an apologetic school boy, alternately nodding or shaking his head as Zorba's verbal diatribe continued, his angry words punctuated by angry glares and accusatory gestures at the five increasingly-anxious soldiers.

Finally, Zorba stopped speaking; he crossed his arms over his barrel-like chest and glared at Captain Stamos expectantly. The Captain blinked twice, then turned, leaned his head out his office, and bellowed. A few moments later, another dozen soldiers appeared and marched into the room; as Captain Stamos directed them, they took hold of the five men who had attacked Hanno and his wife and escorted them out of the room.

"Please, I apologize for this... trouble," Captain Stamos said to Hanno and Yukio in broken Latin once they were alone in the office. Alone save for Zorba, who was glaring at the Captain's broad back looking for all the world like an angry parent watching a recalcitrant child apologize to a neighbour. "Is Greek tradition... we treat guests well, yes? Those men... they shame their uniform. Shame their country. We punish them, I promise." When he finished, he turned to glance at Zorba, as if checking for approval. Zorba, still looking stern, nodded once.

Hanno could feel Yukio's arms tight around his torso and felt her body shaking against his own. He could feel his face flushing with his own anger and did his best to stifle it. "I think it would be best for all concerned," he said, one hand massaging his sore abdomen, "if my party and I were allowed on our way to England. Don't you agree, Zorba?"

"Yes," Zorba said. "You make them wait too long already. Zorba not happy. If Zorba not happy, Alexander not happy. If Alexander not happy, Captain Stamos very unhappy."

Hanno watched as Stamos swallowed hard and nodded. "We escort you to border right away. Be ready... 2 hour. Must notify English first," he hastened to add when the implication of a further delay made Zorba's dark brows rise.

"I go with my friends," Zorba said, and Captain Stamos continued to nod agreeably as Zorba gestured for Hanno and his wife to follow him out of the office.

"I as so grateful you showed up when you did," Hanno told his Greek counterpart as they walked out of the command building and back to their billets.

"Me too," Yukio added, and Zorba smiled at her sadly, reached out, and gave her hand a little squeeze.

"Zorba should never have left you. Soldiers. Scum!" he said, then spat disgustedly, glaring at the other armoured men wandering around the base.

"You put the fear of God into them," Hanno said with no small amount of admiration. "Or was that the fear of Alexander?"

"Alexander?" Zorba said. "No no no. There worse things than Alexander." Hanno and Yukio waited expectantly. "I tell them... no more wine!"

Hanno couldn't help himself. The emotions of what he and his wife had been through suddenly caught up with him, and he began to laugh loudly even as tears of horror and relief coursed down his cheeks. The whole time, as Zorba watched with puzzlement but not without compassion, Hanno never released Yukio from his embrace, a situation which his wife did not object to in the least.

***



Within two hours, as promised, Hanno, Yukio, their travelling companions and their caravan were once again on their way, travelling out of the Greek army base and across a wind-swept plain towards England's southernmost border. The company flew white flags of non-aggression next to each purple Roman standard. The camels bellowed their objections, but were soon underway. Zorba accompanied them.

"No think about stupid soldiers when you think of Hellas, please," he begged Hanno and especially Yukio as they walked.

"When I think of Greece... sorry, Hellas..., I will do my best to think of you," Yukio said, placing a hand affectionately upon the little Merchant's shoulder. "I will think of our friend, and my hero, Zorba." With that, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

Hanno watched as Zorba turned beet-red, then the little man's spine straightened and he seemed to grow in stature. He started to swing his arms and march down the road, as proud as any victorious shoulder.

Yukio watched him, smiling and laughing softly, as she fell back in pace with her husband.

"You're holding up well," he remarked to her quietly. "Considering..."

"We can't let such things hold us back," she replied. Her voice hardened. "If we do, the bastards win."

"It meant the world to him, to hear you call him a hero," Hanno said, watching Zorba strutting ahead of them.

"Well, he was."

"Because I couldn't be..." Hanno said, both his voice and his gaze lowering. He felt Yukio's dark eyes upon him, then felt her hand slide into his.

"If I'd wanted to be with a man of action, I would have married a soldier," she said. "I didn't. I married you. I love you for exactly who you are. I don't expect you to become something you're not."

"The fact that you have to comfort me... fills me with shame," Hanno said, his voice rough with emotion.

"We have nothing to be ashamed of," Yukio told him. "Leave that to the fellators who attacked us."

Hanno looked at his wife, his eyes wide. He'd never heard her use such rough language before. Obviously the incident had affected her, yet when her dark eyes looked back into his, he could see steel there. He had an overwhelming sense of deja vu. He'd seen that same inner strength, he realized, in many of the Japanese he'd dealt with over the years. And he wondered, surprisingly for the first time, if a conquered people could every really be considered conquered.

"Still, it might be wise if we start taking precautions," Yukio said, turning her eyes from her husband to gaze back down the road. "I have a couple of family heirlooms in one of my trunks. Two swords, a long katana and a shorter wakizashi. Only a handful were ever made, just before Kyoto fell to Rome. They're both sharp as razors--sharper, perhaps. Maybe I should carry the wakizashi, and you should carry the katana." She turned and smiled at him, her dark eyes glancing at his expensive silk robe. "I bet you'd look very dashing with an exotic sword on your hip."

"If ever drew the thing out of its scabbard, I'd probably cut my own damn fool head off!" Hanno remarked.

"I'll teach you how to use it," Yukio said, then smiled as her husband's expression changed to one of dubious surprise. "My grandfather was a very accomplished swordsman. Since he had no grandsons, he taught everything he knew to me."

Hanno smiled. What had she said to him on the trip over? That he always made her feel better? Well, she did the same in return for him. For the first time since that most unpleasant incident earlier that day, Hanno began to relax and to feel some of his customary confidence returning. Mongolia and Greece were behind him; ahead lay England, Rome's traditional friend and ally. He knew he could count upon a warm welcome in London; what he hoped for, however, was an even hotter price for his goods. For despite his affection for his friend Zorba, Hanno had no desire to return from whence he had come.

[CCRunner]

Chapter Twelve: The Merchant

Part 5: The Chimes at Midnight



It was late by the time Hanno, Yukio, and the rest of their caravan—including Zorba, who insisted on escorting them deep into English territory—finally made it to an English military outpost south of London. Zorba led them to a roadside tavern, which he assured them had comfortable, clean rooms where Hanno and his wife could spend the night.

“I come England all the time!” Zorba declared when Hanno asked if he was in any danger as a sole Greek in enemy territory. “War is… how you say… temp…? temporary. Business is business. And I want see my friend, Jack!”

Just as he spoke the word, the door of the tavern opened and the largest man Hanno had ever seen stepped out. His hair and beard were unkempt and grizzled, his large nose reddish even in the dim light of twilight, and his tremendous girth barely fit through the door frame.

“What’s this?” the large man cried. “Someone taking Jack’s name in vain? Who dares?”

He weaved unsteadily from one wide-set foot to the other, like a sailor aboard a ship. Since, however, he was standing upon decidedly steady and dry land, it was obvious that he’d been in his cups. And considering the size of the man, he must have been in every single cup in England to be as drunk as he clearly was.

“Jack!” Zorba cried, throwing his arms wide. When the big man only blinked in bewilderment, he added, “Is me, Zorba!”

“Zorba!” the big man shouted, then stepped forward and enclosed the Greek merchant in a warm embrace. Hanno marveled that the two rotund men actually had enough reach to throw their arms around one another.

The two men stepped back from their embrace, chuckling, then Zorba suddenly reached up and smacked the side of his friend’s head.

“OW!” Jack cried. “What was that for?”

“You owe me 50 drachmae, Jack Falstaff!” Zorba said accusingly, prodding his finger into Jack’s prodigious belly.

“’Drack-me’? Drag you?” Jack bellowed back. “For sooth, I shall drag you, after I lay you out, thou Greek cur! Thou Corinthian colon!” he said, poking at Zorba’s own ample mid-section.

“Gentlemen, please!” Hanno, ever the peace-maker, said as he stepped in between the feuding friends. “It’s late, and we’re weary from the road. Can we not settle this tomorrow, after we’re better rested and…,” he paused as Jack’s breath, reeking of ale, brought tears to his eyes, “er… when sober heads may prevail?”

The two obese men stepped back from one another, glared at each other for a moment, then each dropped his gaze and nodded.

“Indeed, methinks discretion is the better part of valour,” Jack said.

“You always think discretion is better part of valour,” Zorba responded accusingly.

“'Tis an adage,” Jack said, “though if poor Jack should add any more age, he shall be late for the grave, he shall,” he added with a sad shake of his head. Zorba only rolled his eyes in response.

“I beg your pardon?” Hanno said.

“'Tis a pun, my lad, a pun,” Jack told him. “’Adage’, you see, sounds like…” He stopped and threw up his hands in a futile gesture. “Never mind. It’s like I’m always telling Billy, it isn’t funny if you have to explain it.”

“Billy?” Hanno asked, still puzzled.

“A joke-writer in London of my acquaintance,” Jack told him with a dismissive wave of his beefy hand, then cast a quizzical look at Hanno. “And who might you be, then?”

“This is Hanno,” Zorba interjected. “He Roman.”

“Ah! Roaming he is indeed, to find himself here, so far from home, on such a night. Though I gather that you’re none too bright, so a Roman candle I surmise you are not. But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?” He said, suddenly spotting Yukio.

“Window?” Hanno asked, wondering if he was ever going to stop feeling puzzled by this big man’s strange way of speaking.

“Forget it,” Zorba said with a sigh. “He on a roll.”

“It is the east, and Juliet is the sun! Arise, fair sun, and… something something something.”

Jack leaned forward, barely managing to avoid toppling over as he did so, but then took Yukio’s hand in his own with a gentleness that surprised the dainty Japanese woman. He raised her hand to his lips and respectfully kissed it.

“How enchanting,” Yukio said, smiling. She was finding Jack Falstaff’s antics refreshingly amusing, especially after the very disturbing start to her day. “But my name isn’t Juliet. It’s Yukio.”

“Yoo-kee-o?” Jack said as he straightened wobbily. “And who, pray tell, fair maiden, might possess the key to ‘your key-hole’? OW!”

Zorba had smacked Jack on the head yet again. “You watch mouth, Jack Falstaff!” he said. “That her husband,” he said, pointing to an amused Hanno. “He have key, and you locked out!”

Jack placed his hand over his heart as though he was wounded. “Is this true, fair Yoo-kee-o? Has this usurper displaced me in your heart?”

“Long ago,” Yukio said with a smile and a shrug.

“Oh! Frailty, thy name is woman!” Jack proclaimed sorrowfully to the darkening skies above him. “However, I shall allow my rival to compensate me for his cuckoldry,” he said as he walked over to Hanno and placed a big arm around the Roman’s shoulders and began to lead him towards the tavern. “A pint or two of sack will do wonders to mollify my aggrieved heart.”

“Jack…” Zorba growled.

“That’s not a bad idea, actually,” Hanno said. “I’m thirsty from the ride. And today of all days, I could use a drink.”

“That’s the spirit!” Jack said, giving Hanno a friendly shake that made the merchant’s teeth rattle. “And more may be purchased here within. So tell me, my new friend and ally from the Roman people: where are you headed?”

“We’re going to London,” Hanno said as they stepped into the noisy hubbub of the public house.

“And your business there?”

“We shall be meeting with Queen Elizabeth to negotiate a price for our goods.”

“The Queen!” Jack said as he took a seat at a table and signalled to the serving girl, who only scowled at him. Hanno beckoned her over, and after giving the merchant’s expensive clothing a surprised once-over, she bustled over to him to take his order.

“You must remember me to her,” Jack continued.

“You know Queen Elizabeth?” Yukio asked, mildly surprised.

“Know her?” Jack said as though insulted, “Taught her everything she knows, I did! But we had, er, a falling out, as it were. Which is why I linger here, amongst this rabble, rather than in my rightful place at her court, as her faithful, devoted, and loving servant!”

Hanno noticed that Zorba’s eyes were rolling up towards the ceiling yet again. Hanno himself winced suddenly as he felt a brief, short, stab of pain in his mid-section.

“Are you all right?” Yukio asked, leaning in close to him.

“I’m fine,” Hanno said. Whatever it was, it had passed. “Something I ate. Or maybe today’s stress.”

His wife continued to give him a worried look, so he smiled at her and patted her hand reassuringly. He then returned his attention to their host, if he could be called that, who had not ceased talking since they’d sat down at their table.

"The Queen is a cruel woman when she's crossed, be warned," Jack went on, then snatched a mug from the serving girl's tray as she passed by. He quaffed it whole without pausing for breath. "But she's fair," he went on, "in every sense of the word..." He paused to emit a belch that his companions were sure had shaken the very rafters of the pub. "And beautiful! Ah! Shall I compare her to a summer's day...?"

[CCRunner]

Chapter Eleven: The Merchant

Part 6: This Other Eden



“So then my mother,” Sextus Rutullus Lepidus was saying, grinning broadly and gesturing with his wine cup, “suggested that all Roman women should be given the franchise!”

Rome’s ambassador to England was reclining upon a couch in the embassy’s triclinium, its traditional Roman dining room. Three high couches formed a U-shaped eating area, tables before each. The two side couches were empty that night; Sextus lay upon the left side of the central couch, at the bottom of the U; his guest, Hanno, reclined upon the right, in the place of honour. Yukio sat opposite her husband, on the other side of the table, in a chair, as a proper Roman woman should; on her left sat Sextus’ English wife, Hermione, a lovely, tall blonde woman.

Hanno’s eyes went wide as Sextus related that part of the story. “Edepol!” he exclaimed. “How did her dinner guests take that?”

“They were shocked speechless, of course,” Sextus said, grinning. “Except for Marcus Tillius Cicero; he considers himself unflappable, and I suppose he has a court record to back that up. He bowed that huge head of his and said, ‘My dearest Claudia, if all Roman women were like you, I would not hesitate to agree.”

Yukio chuckled; she’d heard Cicero speak more than once in the Forum Romanum, and Sextus’ imitation of his high-pitched, nasal, but crystal-clear enunciation was dead-on.

“And was your mother mollified by this?” she asked.

“Oh, not at all!” Sextus replied after a sip of his wine. “She eyed Cicero coldly and said, ‘You are correct, Marcus Tillius, I am not like other Roman women. The vast majority of them are far better examples of the femininity than myself.’ Cicero opened his mouth to object, but she ploughed right over him. ‘I was born into wealth and privilege,’ my mother went on; ‘I have never known want. But thousands of Roman women raise their families, manage their households, feed their children, and ensure their husbands’ comfort without the benefit of wealth, or servants, or advantageous connections. And yet you consider us the ‘weaker vessel’.’

“Now my mother has this very patrician, disdainful laugh she wields like a gladius; I can’t even hope to imitate it, so I won’t make the attempt. Suffice it to say that when she used it on you, it makes you feel like she’s just sliced your gut open. Well, she used this cutting laugh of hers right then, on those four senators in her dining room. And then she said, ‘Mark my words, conscript fathers: one day you will grant the franchise to women, and we shall introduce so much good sense into government that you will wonder why you put it off for so long!’”

Hosts and guests laughed, then Hanno asked, “And what did your father think of all this?”

“Oh, he was grinning ear to ear!” Sextus replied. “He loves seeing a few of his colleagues brought down a peg or two, and of course he’s besotted with my mother,” he said with an affectionate grin.

“So he agrees with her then?” Yukio said, very interested, her eyes displaying an intensity matched by her voice.

Sextus suddenly grew silent and looked steadily at Yukio over the top of his wine cup. “Yes,” he said quietly, “I dare say he does.”

Hanno nearly choked on his wine. “Are you serious?” he asked Sextus. “Are you telling me that Lucius Rutullus Lepidus Aztecus Princeps and all the rest of it supports the enfranchisement of women?”

“What’s wrong with that?” his wife asked him before Sextus could answer. “Don’t you think it would be a good idea?”

Hanno stared at his wife, taken aback. They had never discussed the topic before, probably because he had always considered the idea, if he considered it at all, to be patently ridiculous. Yet she seemed to be in favour of it! The wine was affecting her. Yes, it had to be the wine. Still, ever the salesman, he knew better than to dismiss her opinion outright.

“My dear,” he said in a soothing tone. “You of all people should know that I admire and respect women. Which is why I believe they should never be allowed in government. They are too gentle and pure for the rough-and-tumble, cut-and-thrust world of politics,” he told her with the grin that usually brought out her own delightful smile. This time, however, she sat starting at him, her face set like stone, and with as much warmth.

“That’s a surprising statement to make,” Hermione said to Hanno, a sly look in her dark blue eyes, “considering whose country you’re in.”

“Her Majesty the Queen is a special case,” Hanno responded smoothly.

“How so?” asked Hermione.

“Well, she’s immortal, for one thing!” Hanno said with a laugh.

“She’s still a woman, though,” Hermione asserted. “Therefore, according to your logic, England would be better off under the rule of a male immortal. Such as, say, Alexander? Or Genghis Khan?”

Hanno shook his head and smiled. “You misunderstand me, my dear. And let me assure you that I think no one would be better off under the rule of those two tyrants, including their own unfortunate people.”

“What about under Caesar, then?” Hermione asked, her voice and eyes taking on a sharpness that Hanno had not realized they possessed.

Given the question, the tone in which it was stated, and the company present—two Romans, one representing a people conquered by Rome, and one representative of Rome’s supposed ally—an uncomfortable silence suddenly descended upon the room. Hanno took it upon himself to break it.

“England and Rome are friends and allies,” he said.

“Today,” Hermione responded. “Alexander and Khan have been allies in the past, and at each others’ throats, in turn. Oh, I’m sure Caesar will eventually cross the pond and deal with both of them, and jolly good for him and all concerned when he does! But what happens when there’s only Rome and England left? What happens then? Do Good Queen Bess and Gaius Julius get married and live happily ever after?” No one answered her. She shook her head. “Don’t you sometimes get the impression that they’re all playing out some great game, and we’re just their pawns?”

Again, an awkward silence descended upon the room, as it usually does when someone states the truth so baldly. As the host, Sextus felt it was his duty to lift the oppressive mood that threatened to smother what had, up until that point, been a most enjoyable evening.

“This is all my father’s fault,” he said with theatrical despair.

“What makes you say that?” Hanno asked, his usual grin slowly returning.

“He was the one who spearheaded the free speech laws back home!” Sextus said. “The Lexus Rutullae makes everybody think they can say whatever they want!” That did the trick; everyone laughed and smiled. Even so, Sextus felt obliged to acknowledge what they had been discussing. “The day may come when England and Rome find themselves at odds with one another,” he said, “but I assure you it will not be in our lifetimes, or that of our children. For that, we should be thankful. As for universal suffrage, that, too, will not happen in the foreseeable future, and for that, we should all be saddened.”

Hanno blinked in surprise. “Edepol! You mean to say it runs in the family?” he said with an astonished laugh.

Sextus smiled. “I’m afraid so. Trust me, Hanno, after ten minutes in my mothers’ presence, you’d be convinced as well. Myself, I had twenty years to be indoctrinated in her views!”

“Considering how long and how happily your parents have been married, I don’t think that’s a bad thing at all,” Hermione said, casting a loving glance at her husband. He returned the look and reached over to clasp her hand.

“That, I think, is a pleasant note on which to end the evening,” Sextus said. “It’s getting late, and you have an early audience with Her Majesty tomorrow, my friends.”

His guests agreed, and a moment later, they all departed for bed. Once in their room, Hanno turned to embrace his wife, only to have her shrug out of his arms.

“When we get back to Rome,” she said, “I’d like to have dinner with the Princeps Senatus,” she announced. “Do you think that could be arranged?”

“Assuming our trade mission is successful, I suppose so…” Hanno said, somewhat taken aback by his wife’s aloofness.

“Good,” she said, her dark eyes suddenly twinkling. “I think you need to meet Sextus’ mother.”

Hanno rolled his eyes, then gave a resigned sigh and nodded his head. Suddenly, he inhaled a sharp breath between clenched teeth. His left hand pressed against one of the canopy bed’s posts, while his right grabbed at his suddenly painful abdomen. His wife was at his side in an instant.

“The pain again?” Hanno nodded as his wife led him to his side of the bed. “That’s five nights in a row now,” she said, her voice weighted with concern.

“I’m fine,” Hanno said in a strained voice as he gingerly laid down upon the bed.

“You’re not fine,” Yukio said firmly. “First chance we get, I’m taking you to a doctor.”

Hanno glanced up at his wife. The pain was passing now, and he thought of telling her where she could stuff her doctor, but he saw the determined look on her face and had been married to her long enough to know when her mind was made up. He nodded his agreement.

“The Queen comes first,” he asserted.

“I suppose she always does,” Yukio said. “But you come first with me. So once our audience with her is finished, we’re getting you looked over, mister.”

Knowing better than to disagree, the dutiful husband merely smiled and nodded before rolling over on his side to sleep.

***



Genghis Khan and Alexander, Hanno reflected the next day, were soldiers. They may be immortal and rulers of their countries, but they were still simple men—soldiers. The thought came to him in contrast to the woman seated before him, for she was, undeniably, a queen.

Elizabeth was seated upon her throne in Westminster Palace. She wore a high-necked dark blue dress decorated with silver brocade. Her bright red hair was artfully coiffed upon her slender head, a jewelled tiara completing the ensemble. She regarded the merchant and his wife with a regal reserve that nevertheless seemed friendly and welcoming. In spite of the formality of the surroundings and the Queen’s bearing, Hanno found himself feeling much more relaxed than he had while greeting the continent’s other two rulers.

“We are most pleased to welcome citizens of England’s prized friend Rome to our humble court.” Elizabeth said.

Hanno blinked. Humble? He wondered, his peripheral vision taking in the splendid tapestries, the plush velvet fabrics, the silver and gold accents, and the hand-carved stone columns that surrounded them in the throne room. He focused his attention on the Queen and thought he noticed a sign of mirth in those beautiful but perceptive blue eyes.

“It is our pleasure to be welcomed so warmly,” Hanno said graciously.

“Tell us,” Elizabeth said, “how fares Gaius Julius?”

Her tone was even and disinterested, Hanno noted, but her eyes sparkled when she spoke the name.

“When I left Rome, he was very well indeed, your majesty. He sends you his warmest regards,” Hanno replied.

Hanno watched the Queen’s expression closely, but could detect no hint of her regard for Caesar there. He’d heard rumours, of course, that Caesar and Elizabeth were intimate, but the Queen gave no outward sign of her feelings. At first this made Hanno doubt the rumours; Caesar, he knew, was so open and engaging, he couldn’t imagine the Roman leader enjoying the company of this closed, frosty English Queen. Then again, he reflected, perhaps that was the attraction: all women were a mystery, and this Queen was a grander mystery than most women, perhaps more than any. And perhaps, Hanno thought, in a world run by men, this remarkable woman had to be extremely guarded.

“Another acquaintance of your Majesty’s, whom I encountered on my way to London, wishes to be remembered to you as well,” Hanno went on.
One of the Queen’s fiery brows rose. “Allow us to guess. Captain Jack Falstaff?”

“The very one, your Majesty.”

“If you see that reprobate again, tell him that if we are in need of a court jester, he shall hear from us,” she said evenly, though Hanno thought he saw an amused sparkle in her eye. “Otherwise, he can continue to hold his court, where it is, such as it is, and we shall hold ours.”

“Indeed, your Majesty,” Hanno said, thoroughly unsurprised by the Queen’s response and wisely deciding that now that he’s discharged his duty to Zorba’s drinking companion, he would now let the matter drop.

“Let us speak plainly,” Elizabeth said, stirring Hanno from his reverie. “My ministers have studied the goods you bring us, and we are prepared to make an offer.” She nodded at one of her attendants, a man in late middle age dressed in fine velvet and hose that showed he was maintaining his fine legs.

“Lord Wellesley, at your service,” the man said, then handed Hanno a small scroll.

Hanno unfurled the scroll and read through the brief prose, his eyes running to the figure at the bottom. Those shrewd eyes opened wide. The English offer was nearly a thousand talents of gold more than what he had been offered in Greece and Mongolia. The merchant had to struggle to keep his expression neutral.

“A most… generous offer,” he said evenly; years of experience in financial negotiations paid off, keeping all trace of emotion out of his voice.

And yet, when he looked into the Queen’s eyes, he could swear they were twinkling. She knew her offer was better than the others he had received by far! Of course she must have spies in both Greece and Mongolia. Even so, the size of the amount proved what Hanno had up until this point only heard but had never experienced: that the English possessed financial acumen far beyond that of other nations.

“Generosity is what one offers the less fortunate,” Elizabeth said, “a situation far from applicable to Rome. What England offers, we sincerely hope, is a fair and equitable agreement between friends and allies.”
Hanno bowed his head to indicate his understanding and agreement. Inwardly, he was glad that he, his wife, and their companions would not have to retrace their steps through Greece and Mongolia and could instead end their journey here in England, among friends of Rome.

Just then, another official-looking man dressed in a long red velvet robe fringed with ermine entered the receiving room and approached the throne. He bent forward to whisper in the Queen’s ear. As he spoke, her arched red brows rose and she turned to look at him.

“Indeed?” she said aloud, evidently deeming whatever news this minister bore worthy of dissemination to the court and its visitors. “What type of ship, and bearing the flag of which nation?”

“We do not know, your majesty,” the man replied. “Only that it is sailing towards London as we speak.”

An anxious murmur arose in the court. A ship? Sailing towards London? Whose could it be? England shared a continent with two aggressive neighbours and was currently at war with one of them. Could this ship be the vanguard of an amphibious invasion?

“Well,” the Queen said nonchalantly, “I suppose we must see for ourselves. It is a pleasant day, and a walk by the seaside will do us all a world of good. This court spends far too much time sitting and talking indoors. Come!” she said, standing suddenly and clapping her hands, at which signal the entire court, lords, ladies, and servants alike rose and began to scurry about. “You come as well, Hanno, and your lovely wife!”

“This seems odd,” Yukio remarked as she and her husband walked out of the palace and followed the Queen and her courtiers down a long, wide, paved path. “If this is an invasion, should the Queen really be going out to meet it herself?”

“Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised if she sent them packing with a tongue-lashing,” Hanno said.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a man in a tunic and toga approaching the group. He nodded to Sextus Rutullus Lepidus as he fell into step with Hanno and Yukio.

“Well, here’s a little more excitement for your visit!” Sextus said in Latin.

“Is London really being invaded?” Hanno asked.

“I suppose we’ll find out shortly!”

A few minutes later, the group approached a royal dock upon the Thames, its precincts much cleaner and more respectable than Hanno, a frequenter of many a shipping port, had ever encountered before. Here the courtiers assembled, on a boardwalk high above the water’s edge, the servants holding parasols to shield the ladies from the sun’s heat.

“There it is!” Sextus said, pointing towards the western horizon.

There, in the distance, they could see the high masts and sails of a sailing ship, evidently a large one, its prow pointed straight towards the heart of London.

“It’s a galleon,” Hanno murmured as he counted the sails. “It has to be.”

“Indeed, we think you are correct,” Elizabeth said, her sharp ears detecting the merchant’s assessment. “A galleon it must indeed be.”

The English lords and ladies glanced at one another nervously. Galleons could carry troops, after all—a lot of them. And yet, here was their Queen, evidently unafraid and determine to greet this mysterious ship, whatever its cargo.

The ship was closer now, and larger in their view. They could hear its broad canvas sails snapping in the wind and the surging sound as the surf broke beneath its prow. Every eye on the dock strained to discern any further details.

It was Yukio who spotted the flag atop the foremast first. She gasped when she saw the familiar gold oak crown on a field of purple.

“It’s Roman!” she exclaimed. Every eye on the dock turned towards her. “See? On top of the mast? It’s the flag of Rome!”

The crowd on the dock turned back to stare at the ship, and slowly, they found and recognized the flag of their friend and ally. It seemed as if the crowd collectively let out a breath it had been holding. The courtiers were smiling now, then began to cheer as the ship approached the dock. On its side they could discern a name: JVNO, the ancient queen of the Roman pantheon.



As it grew near, English dockhands went to work, carrying forth great, heavy ropes with which the great ship could be fastened to the dock. On the Roman ship, deckhand were similarly hurrying about, preparing the galleon for docking. Ropes were tossed from the ship to the dock as it drew alongside, and vice versa, the experienced dock workers and sailors working together to bring the great ship to port.

As soon as the Juno was secured, a great gangplank lowered from her port side. A tall, lean figure in a purple-striped tunic and toga then appeared at the top of the gangplank, surveying the dock, and London beyond it, with great interest. A golden oak crown sat atop the thinning hair atop his head; beneath it, the handsome face was dominated by a pair of piercing eyes, ice-blue rimmed with black.

“Ave, Caesar!” Sextus cried out, instinctively pressing his fist to his heart, then opening his hand and extending it outwards in the age-old legionary salute.

Caesar smiled at Rome’s ambassador to England as he walked down to the dock. “Ave, Sextus Rutullus Lepidus. It’s been a few years since the Battle of Jute, eh?”

“Indeed it has,” Sextus said, smiling as he remembered marching with the Twelfth Legion to capture the last barbarian stronghold on the island just east of the Roman continent. “As I recall, you are already acquainted with Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth,” he said as they approached the Queen.

“Indeed I am,” Caesar said with a broad smile, extending both this strong hands, into which Elizabeth placed her daintier ones. “I decided to take advantage of your offer, your Grace.”

“You are most welcome,” Elizabeth said, her blue eyes riveted upon Caesar’s. “We assured Rome’s leader of a warm welcome in England’s heart, and you shall indeed have it.”

“Wonderful,” Caesar said, then released Elizabeth’s hands. She deftly linked her left arm with his right and they turned and began to walk back towards the palace. “Sextus,” Caesar remarked to his ambassador, “I bring you greetings from your father and mother.”

“They’re both well, I hope?”

“Both hale and hearty when I left,” Caesar assured him. “Your father intends to run for Censor again, now that his third term as Consul is over.”

Sextus chuckled softly. “Mother likes the peace and quiet in the house when he’s out of it,” he remarked. “Or so she says. The truth of it is, she knows he’s a man of action. Being of service to Rome keeps him young. So she keeps advising him to seek office rather than retire.”

“I, for one, am glad for her perseverance in that regard,” Caesar said, then noticed another familiar face in the crowd. “Ah, Hanno! And your lovely wife. Yukio, correct?” The merchant and his wife bowed their heads. “I trust you have brought your business on the continent to a satisfactory conclusion?”
Caesar’s statement, Hanno realized, was anything but a question. The merchant glanced at the Queen, who favoured him with a slight but friendly smile.

“I believe so, Caesar,” Hanno said. “Most satisfactory indeed.”

“Good,” Caesar said, then leaned in close so only Hanno could hear him. “We’ll speak later. I want to hear about what happened in Argos.”

Hanno’s eyes widened. How did he know…? But Caesar had already straightened and was speaking for the crowd yet again.

“Allow me to introduce you,” Caesar said, gesturing to a tall, lean man with a neatly-trimmed mustache and beard who had come down the gangplank in Caesar’s wake. “This is Remus—yes, the latest descendant from Rome’s famous family of explorers. He and his colleagues intend to map what they can of the continent… since certain parties refuse to share their maps with us,” he added, casting an arch look in Queen Elizabeth’s direction, a look that he found mirrored in her lovely face.

“Your majesty,” Remus said, bowing to the Queen and wisely ignoring the teasing interplay between the two immortal leaders.

“This is indeed a splendid and happy occasion,” Caesar continued. “My visit here will serve, I sincerely hope, as proof to the world of the enduring friendship of England and Rome. I say this is cause for a celebration,” he said with a sly glance at the Queen, then added in a stage whisper, “And trust me, no one knows how to throw a party better than a man in a toga.”

As the joyful courtiers walked back to the palace, Hanno realized that Caesar was utterly unsurprised that the merchant’s trade mission had culminated in England. Indeed, how could it be a coincidence that he should appear suddenly, in the English capital, just as Hanno had received the English offer? Not that his acceptance of it was ever in doubt, not when it far exceeded the offers of Alexander or Genghis Khan! Still, Hanno wondered, how had he known? How had he known what the outcome would be before Hanno himself did, how did he know exactly when to appear so as to have the desirable effect? In the end, Hanno could only shrug. He is Caesar, he thought. That’s explanation enough.

***

The throne room in the palace Athens sported a balcony high upon its northern side which overlooked a well-manicured garden. There, away from eavesdroppers, stood two men, both immortal, both leaders of their respective nations.

“I received word from my agents in London today, by the way,” Alexander remarked to his visitor. “That grubby Roman merchant sold his wares to Caesar’s whore.”

Genghis Khan grunted disdainfully. “It figures. Pah! Trinkets for women. He probably gave her a discount, she being Rome’s pet and all.”

“Actually, no,” Alexander said. “From what I understand, her offer exceeded either of ours by nearly a thousand talents.” Alexander watched as Khan’s narrow eyes opened wide. The Greek leader shrugged. “What can one expect from a nation of shopkeepers?”

“It’s not the shopkeepers that worry me,” Khan said. “It’s the company they’re keeping these days.” He shook his head. “It was one thing when we had the continent to ourselves. But Rome… Rome complicates matters.”

“Yes, I’ve been thinking about that,” Alexander said. “You know, we have an old saying here in Greece: the enemy of my enemy is my friend,” he remarked, casting a meaningful glance at Khan, his neighbour and frequent rival.

Khan paused a moment to digest the aphorism. “If that is so,” Khan said, “what does that make the friend of your enemy?”

“What else could they be, but my enemy as well?” Alexander said slowly, an undercurrent of malice in his tone.

“Indeed,” Khan said, nodding. “Indeed…”

Both men turned and looked to the north, towards England.

[CCRunner]

Chapter Twelve: The Merchant

Epilogue

Yukio was very quiet, her dark, almond-shaped eyes shimmering.

“They must be wrong,” she said.

“That’s what I thought,” Hanno replied, “the first time they told me. I still doubted it the second time. But by the third, I believed it. More than that, I’m starting to feel it.”

“We have to get you home,” she said firmly. “What do these English doctors know? Roman medicine is…”

“They know enough, my love,” Hanno replied. “Enough to tell me that I won’t live long enough to see the end of the trip.”

Finally, she couldn’t stand it any longer. Her face creased with sorrow, tears spilled from her eyes, and her head fell forward into her hands. As her slender shoulders shook, Hanno stepped forward and enclosed her in his arms.

“It isn’t fair,” she murmured between sobs. “It isn’t fair…”

“I know,” he whispered into her ear. “Perhaps… it’s because my work is done.”

She snuffled against his shoulder. “Do you remember… on the trip over here... you told me the only thing you were afraid of was losing me?” Hanno nodded. “You never asked me what my greatest fear was.” She paused a moment, then sobbed. “I’m facing it now,” she said, then burst into the most heart-wrenching wail of pure sorrow that Hanno had ever heard.

Strangely, he felt little grief or even fear regarding his impending death. What affected him most was this—the pain it was causing the person he loved most in the world.

“There there,” he cooed softly, stroking her long, dark hair. “You have nothing to be afraid of. You’ll be well taken care of. You’re rich beyond your wildest dreams…”

She leaned back and looked at him with astonishment, the golden skin of her face wet with tears.

“I never cared about the money,” she told him, shaking her head. “I never… I only cared about you…” More tears fell, and she pressed her head against his chest again.

And at that moment, for the first time, Hanno realized that he’d never cared about the money either. Money was transitory, always in motion, never in one place for very long, not if it was going to do anybody any good. No, he’d lived for the thrill of the deal, of working for that moment, for that look in the customer’s eyes, the slow inhalation, the gradual smile, the nod of the head that meant he’d done it yet again. He’d lived for that, and for one other thing, for the woman he now held in his arms.

Well, now he’d met a customer he couldn’t bargain with. A customer whose price was steeper than he’d anticipated. Finally, at long last, Hanno had met his match. He began to laugh softly.

“What could you possibly find funny at a moment like this?” Yukio asked him, staring up at him in astonishment.

“The only one who ever beat Hanno at the bargaining table,” he said grandiosely, “was death.” He looked at her smugly. “I told you I was a great merchant.”

He began to laugh, and a moment later, she joined him. Their fingers intertwined, and then he leaned down and kissed her, gently at first, then passionately.

“Enough tears,” he said. “I have some time yet. I want to see Britain. With you. I want to make love on England’s eastern shore while we watch the sun rise as if Rome herself sent it to us, like a cherished memento from home.”

“My husband,” Yukio said, stroking his face as a sad smile played upon her own. “Merchant, traveller, and poet.”

“You forgot my favourite title and accomplishment,” he chided her with a grin.

“What’s that?”

“Lover,” he whispered.

And he kissed her yet again, as though it was the last time he ever would.

[CCRunner]

Chapter Thirteen: The Golden Age

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” she grumbled.

“I ask very little of you, my dear,” he responded, his voice as cheerful and patient as hers had been grouchy and truculent. “And as I said, I’m sure you’ll enjoy this.”

“At this ungodly hour?” she responded. “The sun hasn’t even come up yet!”

“Your powers of observation continue to astound me,” he responded dryly. She responded by giving his bicep a light slap, which made him chuckle.

“We are not amused,” she said archly, but as he looked at her in the dim pre-dawn light, he could see a teasing sparkle in her cobalt eyes.

“This way, your majesty,” he said.

He took her hand, giving it an affectionate squeeze, and led her on through a grove of cypress trees. As she’d said, the sun was still hiding behind the eastern horizon, but the birds were already awake, and filled the early morning air with their joyful trills and calls. In the west, the last stars were fading above a placid sea. An ocean breeze added a sharpness to the air, mingling with the scent of night-blooming jasmine.

He inhaled deeply and enjoyed the moment. It was so rare for them to have any time alone together, especially out of doors. Of course there were guards stationed nearby—both of their ever-present entourages had insisted upon it—but they were a good distance away and discretely out of sight, something which he, in turn, had insisted upon. Rank had its privileges—sometimes.

“The natives who inhabited the jungles in the far mid-western reaches of our continent call themselves Indians,” he explained to her as they walked. “I suppose in another world, they may have become a nation unto themselves.”

“Like the Chinese?” she posited, curious as to where this impromptu lecture was leading. She was also wondering where her companion was leading her, but knew, as she knew him, that they were connected.

“Yes. At any rate, we assimilated them and they’ve become good Romans. One of their number in particular, named Shahbuddin Jahan, rose to prominence. He became a business partner of the Rutulli—a very wise choice—and became very wealthy indeed. He also married a wonderful woman named Mumtaz Mahal. Whom he loved with all his heart.”

He paused a moment, and she sensed that there was more to the story.

“And…?” she prompted him.

“And… she died. In childbirth. Jahan was heartbroken.”

“How sad,” she said solemnly. “But not uncommon.”

“True,” he said, “but what Jahan then did was most uncommon indeed.”

“Ah,” she said, “the point of the story. What did Jahan do?”

“You’re about to see,” he said, then led her out of the pathway between the cypress trees to a vast open area.

He directed her gaze across a long, slender reflecting pool. There, at the pool’s far end, was a tall building of gleaming white marble. The base of the building was slightly wider than it was high, and was fronted by a large, elegantly arched entranceway and four smaller archways, two on either side, one atop the other, that copied the elaborately sculpted shape of the grand archway. The pointed crests of the archways drew the eye upwards to the building’s most spectacular feature, a marble dome as tall as the building beneath it, its height accentuated by a tall marble ring which it sat upon. Surround the building were four tall, slender marble minarets. It was a beautiful vision of symmetry in every way.



His timing was perfect. His companion’s gaze fell upon the building just as the sun broke over the eastern horizon; its rays bathed the structure in reddish-pink light, transforming the white marble so it seemed to glow with the sky’s transient hue rather than merely reflecting it.

As he had hoped, the building and his carefully-timed revelation of it had the desired effect. She gasped, then became silent, awed mute by such astounding beauty. He rested his hands on her slender shoulders and let her drink in the sight before her.

“It’s… extraordinary,” she said breathlessly. “Beautiful.” She shook her head. “Words fail me.”

“I know the feeling,” he responded.

“It’s… a mausoleum?” she eventually said, her voice a delicate whisper.

“Yes,” he said with a nod, “though the word hardly does it justice. Jahan named it the ‘Taj Mahal’. It’s not just a monument to one woman, though. It’s a monument to love. Jahan drew upon the skills of the finest architects, designers, and craftsmen from across the continent. In turn, the Taj has inspired… well, everyone. Combined with the unification of the continent, the ensuing Pax Romana, and the success of Hanno’s trade mission, Rome is enjoying a period of unprecedented prosperity.”

“A golden age,” she said wistfully.

“Indeed,” he agreed. His arms lowered from her shoulders to circle her narrow waist. He pulled her slender body back against his own. He pressed his lips against the top of her head and tenderly kissed her red hair.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” she told him.

Her gaze still drank in the beauty of the Taj Mahal, its marble changing from a reddish-pink glow to gleaming white as the sun rose. She placed her hands over his where they met over her abdomen. She enjoyed the feel of his strong, sinewy body against hers, his arms encircling her protectively. She felt the omnipresent tension flowing out of her body; for this brief moment, she relaxed and allowed herself to enjoy the illusion that she was safe from harm. Then he lowered his head so that his lips were nuzzling her neck, and she giggled softly, like a girl.

“I take it you’re hoping that this monument to love will inspire me as well?” she said, smiling as he playfully nibbled on her neck.

“Did it work?” he asked hopefully.

“I’ll let you know,” she said with a teasing tone in her voice.

She turned her face towards his, then closed her eyes as he leaned forward to kiss her. He was a good kisser, she reflected; not too forceful or invasive, but firm and manly. And he always seemed to sense her mood, her shifting preferences for tenderness or passion, and responded accordingly. Yes, he was good at kissing, very good, and at several other things besides. Sometimes she hated him for it. She broke the kiss, then turned to gaze at the monument again.

“They are so fragile,” she said, “aren’t they?”

“Everything in this world is fragile, and fleeting,” he replied, suddenly serious.

“Except us,” she said.

“It’s nice to think so.”

“Dangerous as well.”

“Hmm.”

She turned about to face him completely; his arms were still around her waist, and she placed her own around his neck. She didn’t like where the conversation was suddenly going, where it could go. It was best, she decided, to stop it. Best not to think about the inevitable.

“Come on,” she said, smiling up at him, her blue eyes shining, “let’s go build our own monument to love.”

He smiled broadly, the corners of his eyes wrinkling in that way that she liked. She wished, just for a moment, that they could always be together like this. But that, she knew, was impossible. He moved to go, but she stood there and held on to him just a moment longer. She pressed herself close against him and laid her head upon his shoulder.

She looked out towards the west, towards her homeland. A storm was brewing there in the distance, over the ocean. She looked at it and shuddered.

[CCRunner]

Princes 14 – Child’s Play

Part 1: Shortcomings



It was a beautiful, peaceful morning on the plains northeast of Pisae, Rome’s primary military city. The sun shone overhead through a sky dappled with a few small, puffy white clouds. A gentle breeze blew from the west, its pleasing warmth offering the promise of summer on this excellent spring day. In a copse of trees to one side of the plain, birds were chirping and singing as if in exultation.

Yes, it was a beautiful, peaceful day. Of course it couldn’t last.

The air suddenly crackled with the sound of several small, harsh explosions. The birds in the nearby trees suddenly squawked and leapt into the sky in alarm. A haze of sulphuric smoke drifted across the plain, carried by the spring breeze.

“Well, they’re noisy as hell, I’ll grant them that much,” Caesar said. He wore a dark purple coat, white shirt, and black knee-breeches—the latest fashions for a gentleman, let alone a man of authority. Togas were now only worn on the most formal of occasions, and Caesar had no desire to be seen as old-fashioned. His face was clean-shaven and his hair cut short. Queues had come into fashion lately, but Caesar disdained them as unnecessary vanity.

“With all due respect, Caesar, you can’t discount that factor,” the young man next to him said. “Noise like that can strike fear into the heart of the enemy.”

“Have you ever been in a battle?” Caesar asked the young man sharply.

“Er, no…” he acknowledged, suddenly embarrassed.

“Hrmph. Well, that makes the observation even more astute.”

Caesar turned to look at the young man and bestowed a thin smile upon him. Li Shang was tall and slender, clean-shaven in the Roman tradition, while its Chinese counterpart was observed by the neat, coal-black queue of hair that hung down his back. He wore a long robe that was traditional among his people. He was also, everyone told Caesar, brilliant. Roman scientists had created, almost by accident, an explosive powder several years ago. A few whimsical scientists had found a way to change the color of the flames given off during the explosion and had thereby developed a spectacular way to celebrate various national and religious holidays. Li Shang, however, had been the one to see the potential military applications.

“Proceed with your demonstration, Li,” Caesar said.

Li nodded to the officer in charge of the musketmen.

“Reload!” the officer shouted.

The immortal leader of Rome turned his icy blue eyes to study the line of men standing a few yards in front of him. There were about fifty men there. They were lowering the stocks of their weapons, muskets they called them, to the ground. He watched as they went through the laborious procedure of reloading the muskets. First they turned to the right and drew up a horn of gunpowder from their belts. They primed the pan with a pinch of gunpowder, then they poured some more down the long barrel. The horn went back to their belts, then the musketmen grabbed a lead ball from a pouch which was also attached to their belts. The ball went into the top of the barrel. Then each man drew a long metal rod from where it was held along the outside of the musket barrel and used it to ram the bullet down. Once loaded, they lifted the weapons back to their shoulders.

“Fire!” their commanding officer shouted.

Once again the crackle of musketry filled the air. A breeze carried the rotten egg smell of the burnt gunpowder back towards Caesar. His nose wrinkled at the foul odour. He could see that the musketmen’s faces were blackened from the powder. Several of them were blinking rapidly, and more than a few took a moment to swig water from canteens. He imagined that their throats must be dry and their eyes watering from the acrid smoke their weapons generated. They looked increasingly uncomfortable, as though they couldn’t wait for the demonstration to end.

It was a perfect time for him to spring his trap.

Caesar raised his left hand to his shoulder and let it fall. Suddenly, from out of the copse of trees where birds had been singing only a few moments before, a group of cavalry, two dozen strong, burst from out of the woods. They shouted a war-cry and charged towards the musketmen. They were armed with sabres, but had no fear of the discharged weapons they faced.

They engendered that very emotion in the musketmen they galloped towards. It didn’t matter that the attack made no sense, that the continent of Rome was at peace and had been for generations, that no enemy could possibly appear like this in the middle of their territory. The horsemen were a threat and they reacted instinctively. They threw down their weapons and ran. Two of them tried to remain and reload their weapons, but as they fumbled with the powder horns and the balls, which were suddenly slippery in their sweat-covered fingers, they realized how hopeless it was. The two stalwart musketmen dropped their weapons and joined their comrades in a panicked retreat.

As they ran, they musketmen suddenly saw, just a few yards away, their salvation: a regiment of pikemen, the blades of their long, wicked weapons held high above their heads. The musketmen gratefully rushed towards the pikemen and disappeared among their ranks and files. As the horsemen grew near, a sergeant barked an order and the pikes descended, pointing straight at the approaching horses. The charging beasts checked their charge and steered away from the bristling array of pikes.

Caesar raised his open hand and the “battle” suddenly stopped. The pikemen raised their weapons then lowed the butts of the pikes to the ground and stood in parade rest. The cavalry slowed to a trot and their lead officer redressed their line. Behind the pikemen, the musketmen milled about, glancing at one another in shame.

“What are you so embarrassed about?” Caesar called to them. The Roman leader had held his ground as the cavalry galloped past; Li Sheng had been too shocked to move. “If you’d stood your ground, you’d be dead to a man.”

“Which is a serious issue with your new weapon, young man,” General Bayonnus, standing beside Caesar, said to Li Sheng.

The General was in advanced middle age. His dark brown hair and moustache were grizzled with grey hairs, but his stomach was flat and trim, showing no sign of the paunch so many other, less active men displayed at his age. His uniform, with its gold shoulder epaulettes, dark purple long-tailed coat, and knee-breeches, was immaculate; his tri-corn hat he held behind his back so he could enjoy the spring sun upon his face. He himself had not seen battle, but he came from a long line of military men and he had made the study of strategy and tactics his life’s work. In the immortal Caesar, he’d found an experienced and willing tutor.

“It’s not the only one,” Caesar said dryly. “They take a damned long time to load. How many shots can a skilled musketman fire inside of a minute?” he asked in the tone of a man who knows the answer to the question he has just asked.

“One, perhaps two,” Li Sheng admitted in a low voice.

“A longbowman can release upwards of ten arrows in that same time,” the General commented.

“And what is the effective range of the weapon?” Caesar asked.

“Approximately one hundred yards,” Li Sheng replied.

“Half that of a longbow,” Bayonnus remarked.

“And in a stiff wind…?” Caesar asked.

Li Sheng coughed uncomfortably. “A little over half that.”

“Hrmph,” Bayonnus grunted. “You daren’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes. And pray to whichever of Rome’s gods you believe in that it’s not raining. I’ve seen how effective gunpowder is when it’s wet. Not very.”

Li Sheng didn’t know what to say. They were right, these military men. And yet he knew he was right as well.

“I do not deny that the musket has… issues,” the young Chinese scientist acknowledged. “But surely you both see the potential…?”

“My dear young man, Caesar and I wouldn’t be spending a pleasant spring day choking back the stinking fumes of your odious weapon if we didn’t see some potential in it!” General Bayonnus said irritably. Seeing the young scientist lower his eyes in shame, and then seeing Caesar casting a reproving look his way, the General decided to take a gentler tack. “Don’t be disheartened. Let’s look at the problem analytically—scientist and strategist together, eh?” He patted Li Sheng on the shoulder in a fatherly manner. “You there!” the General called to one of the musketmen. “Yes, you. Retrieve one of those muskets you dropped and bring it here, my good man.”

The musketman, obviously a soldier used to obeying orders—especially those issued by a general—ran back to where the abandoned muskets lay on the ground. He hastily picked one up and then ran back to where the General, Caesar, and the young scientist were standing.

“Ten-SHUN!” General Bayonnus commanded, and the musket man stood stock still, his eyes staring over the General’s shoulder, the musket held at his side with its stock upon the ground and its barrel pointed towards the sky.

The barrel was long, nearly as tall as the man himself. Supposedly the longer barrel increased accuracy, but the accuracy of the weapon, as Li Sheng had admitted, wasn’t that great to begin with. And though the General had compared the musket unfavourably to the longbow, he would be the first to acknowledge that the former weapon had one huge advantage over the latter: time. It took years to train a longbowman, for the man to develop the strength to pull the equivalent of a grown man’s weight with two fingers, and then to develop the accuracy required to wield the weapon effectively. These musketmen, the general knew, had only started training with the musket six months ago, and already they were as proficient with the weapon as any man could be.

“It’s easier to use than a longbow, I’ll grant you that,” the General said, staring at the weapon. “But it lacks the range and accuracy. You and your fellow laboratory monkeys will have to come up with solutions to those two problems.”

“Loading as well,” Caesar added. “There has got to be a better way to load the weapon than the cumbersome procedure currently used.”

“Look here,” the General said, tapping his finger upon the pan. “What if you cut a hole there so the ball and powder could be loaded directly, rather than all this business of pouring and ramming down the muzzle?”

Li Sheng blinked. “It would be… challenging.”

“Pah!” the General barked. “You’re a Roman. You thrive on challenge!’

“What about accuracy, what can be done there?” Caesar asked.

“We can’t make the barrel any longer,” Li Sheng asserted. “It would make the musket unwieldy.”

“So speed it up,” the General said.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” Li Sheng responded.

“Make the ball go faster. That should make it more accurate.”

Li Sheng shook his head. “You want me to cut a hole in the base of the barrel, which will weaken it,” he said in a confused tone, “and then you want me to put a stronger charge in the pan, which could blow it apart?”

“As I said,” the General responded with a smile, “Romans thrive on challenge. Keep telling yourself that until you believe it.” Li Sheng stared at him, then shook his head. “You also need to find a way to counter the cavalry,” the General went on. “They’ll tear your men to pieces while they’re reloading.”

“I think that’s more our territory than Li Sheng’s, General,” Caesar said. The immortal crossed his arms and then thoughtfully raised his right hand to his chin. “Consider this: Legionaries don’t all fight at the same time. Why should the musketmen all fire at the same time?”

“Ah!” General Bayonnus said. “Brilliant! Put the men in two ranks…”

“One rank fires while the other reloads,” Caesar said, “the former protecting the latter.”

“Yes, yes,” Bayonnus replied. “But they still take too long to load. In that time, a cavalry or even an infantry charge could reach the men. They’ll need another way to defend themselves.”

“The musketmen could carry swords,” Li Sheng suggested. “Or knives?”

General Bayonnus shook his head. “Seconds count in a fight. Switching weapons like that could make the difference between life and death. The General stared at the musket, then at the pikes that were still held aloft, glittering in the sun in the distance. He stared back at the musket. “What if…,” he said softly, then paused as the idea took shape. “What if you attached a blade to the end of the musket?”

Both Caesar and the scientist stared at him, wide-eyed. “A… blade?” Li Sheng said.

“Yes, a blade, like the sword you suggested,” the General responded. “The musket’s half the length of a pike, granted, but you could still make it into one.”

“It would… get in the way of the ball,” Li Sheng objected, but hesitantly.

The general shrugged. “So curve it, so it’s out of the way. Or detach it. Or both!”

“Just make it easy to attach the blade,” Caesar said, “so it can be done in an instant.”

“Yes,” Li Sheng said softly, staring at the musket. “Yes, it could work!” He turned and smiled at the General. “It’s a brilliant suggestion sir, and will make the weapon even more versatile. I don’t know about the problems with accuracy and speed, not yet, but the blade… I’ll name it after you, sir, to honour the man who derived the idea.” Li Sheng then bowed towards General Bayonnus.

“Oh, well, really…” the General said, but was secretly pleased by the idea. The Pax Romanus meant he hadn’t been able to make his name with great battles, but having a weapon named after him would guarantee his immortality. “If you feel you must…” he said with a shrug that did nothing to fool Caesar, who watched the General with detached amusement.

“Well, it’s back to the drawing board for you, Li Sheng,” Caesar said. “Send word to Rome when you have results.”

[CCRunner]

Princes 14 – Child’s Play

Part 2: Family Honour




But Li Sheng never did send word to Rome regarding his progress, because he felt as though he’d failed. In actual fact, he’d made significant progress. His greatest innovation was the cartridge, a development which saw the gunpowder and lead ball required for a single shot packed together in a paper envelope. This did away with the necessity of having the musketmen carefully measuring the gunpowder into the musket themselves, and it increased the rate of fire significantly, from one shot per minute to as much as three or four from a skilled musketman.

The bayonet was another successful innovation, though Li Sheng had to give credit for the idea to the General who shared the weapon’s name. A 24-inch long, wickedly sharp blade hung from the musketman’s belt and could be attacked to the end of the musket’s barrel by quickly and easily sliding the collar of the bayonet onto the muzzle, then twisting it to lock it in place. It made the musket equally deadly in close quarters when there was no time to load the weapon. Caesar himself adapted the old legions’ tortoise formation into a similar defensive square that could ward off cavalry.

Despite these successes, Li Sheng despaired. He never solved the other shortcomings of the musket in his lifetime, and for that, he felt he was a failure. His attempts to create a breech-loading gun ended in miserable disappointment, weakening the barrel so that the musket became more deadly to its wielder than to the enemy. And although his cartridges increased the rate of fire, the musket remained woefully inaccurate at distances in excess of one hundred yards.

“You must solve these problems,” a much older Li Sheng told his son, Li Jin. “Not just for my sake. For your family’s sake.” The aging Sheng shook his head of prematurely grey hair sadly. “I fear their solutions are beyond me. You must rectify my shame, my son. It is a heavy burden I lay upon you, I know, but…”

Li Jin nodded dutifully. “I will do it, father. I will find a way.”

Li Jin was Roman, ethnic Chinese, and a devout Confucian as well; filial duty came naturally to him. He had applied himself at the university in Ravenna, finishing at the top of his class. Immediately after graduation, he had obtained a research position at the new military academy in Pisae. There, he applied himself to making the weapon his father had invented, the musket, even better.

Everything else in his life came second to this task. His father passed away at the relatively young age of fifty-seven. Jin shed his tears in private, but thought that his father’s death was a sign of his confidence in his son, that he would succeed where the older man had failed. This hardened his resolve even further. His mother had arranged a marriage for him, and though Jin was fond of his wife, he was glad it was not a romantic match. A lover would have expected more time with him and would not have understood why he needed to spend so much time away from home, spending more time in his lab and on the military testing grounds than he did in his house in Pisae.

The one joy in his life that took him away from his struggles to improve Rome’s weaponry came along a year after his marriage: his son, Wei. Even the dedicated military engineer was surprised at what a devoted father he could be. As the boy grew, Jin increasingly ensured that his schedule allowed him to spend time with his son—to be present as the boy took his first steps, kicked his first ball, lost his baby teeth, and eventually welcomed two younger sisters into the world. As much as Jin loved his daughters, however, his son was his pride and joy and the only true rival to his life’s work when it came to his time and attention.

Jin fervently hoped that Wei would follow in the footsteps of himself and his grandfather by going first to university, and then pursuing the family trade of weapons engineering. As Jin despaired of ever improving the musket, he hoped that Wei would redeem the family honour if he could not. But Wei had little interest in science; he grew tall and strong and seemed only interested in the physical. He became an accomplished athlete, and was winning several athletic honours by his mid-teens.

“My son,” Jin told him after dinner one night, “Your mother and I are proud of your athletic accomplishments. You have brought honour to your family with your physical prowess.” His face shone with pride as he said the words.

“Thank you, father,” Wei replied with a smile.

The fifteen-year-old had come first in both the 100-yard and 200-yard races against the other schools in Pisae that day. The sound of the crowd’s cheers were still ringing in his ears. Wei had impressed everyone, including one particular girl, the niece of a prosperous merchant in Brundisium. His smile broadened as he remembered how she’d blushed when he’d winked at her from the winner’s platform.

Jin took a deep breath and paused, as he always did before broaching the one painful topic that lay between he and his adored son.

“If only, my son, you would apply yourself at your academic studies the way you do at athletics,” Jin said in a gentle voice, accompanied by a teasing grin that belied the serious intent of his message.

Wei suppressed a sigh. It was an old argument, and custom forbade him from being openly defiant of his father. Even so, his father’s message was plain, and it rankled. He could not let it lie.

“The master said, ‘There are several paths to honour,’” Wei said quietly.

Jin blinked and stared at his son in surprised silence for a moment. Then he smiled.

“So you have been paying attention to some of your lessons, I see,” Jin said. “The master also said, ‘When your father is alive, observe his will,’” he added.

This time Wei could not suppress his sigh. “Father, I do not want to toil for years on a fruitless task! I want to bring honour to our family, but in other ways!”

Jin suppressed his anger at this decidedly un-filial outburst. He knew he should be stern with the boy, but he’d never been able to bring himself to do it. His wife had always been the disciplinarian, Jin the trusted confidante.

“Very well,” Jin responded patiently. “What is it you wish to do with your life, my son?”

Wei swallowed hard. He’d resolved to tell his father the truth for months now, and this was his best opportunity. Even so, he hesitated—not because he feared his father’s wrath, but because he loved him and knew his next words would disappoint the man he’d looked up to for all his life.

“When my schooling is done,” Wei said quietly, “I want to… I want to join the army. I want to become a soldier.”

Jin could not help himself. His lips parted in a grimace and he drew breath in sharply and loudly over his teeth.

“A soldier?” Jin said, then shook his head. “No. You cannot.”

“Father, please…”

“I forbid it!” Jin snapped, raising his voice with his son for the first time in his life.

Normally Wei would have backed down, but now that the subject was broached, he knew he could not do so. He had to see it through.

“Don’t you understand, father?” he said. “I don’t just want to gain honour for our family. I want to attain glory!”

Jin shook his head and laughed bitterly. “You poor young fool. Glory against whom? Rome is at peace!”

Wei crossed his arms and gazed steadily back into his father’s eyes. “For now. It won’t last. England needs our help.”

“If they needed our help, they would have asked for it.”

“Necessity will overcome pride. It always does,” Wei replied.

“Will it now?” Jin asked. “You’ve talked to Queen Elizabeth herself, have you?” He didn’t like mocking his son, but he couldn’t help himself. The boy was talking nonsense.

Wei shrugged. “I have paid enough attention in history class to know that peace and war follow one another, inevitably, like the seasons.”

Jin shook his head. “Ah, to be young and filled with the illusion that one knows everything!” he said with a smile. He leaned back in his chair and forced himself to relax. “You may go now, Wei. We will discuss your future plans some other time. You are young. I know a soldier’s life seems adventurous and attractive. I toyed with the notion myself when I was your age. But…” Jin sighed. “At least promise me you will consider… alternatives.”

“Father, I…” Wei was about to become argumentative again, but a pained, pleading expression had appeared on his father’s face, and he could not summon the anger needed to make his point. “Yes, father,” he said quietly.

[CCRunner]

Princes 14 – Child’s Play

Part 3: The Games of Boys





A tersely-worded communique arrived upon Jin’s desk a few days later. It was a message from Caesar himself. If nothing else, it served the purpose of helping Jin to prioritize his energies. “Improving the accuracy of the musket is paramount, more so than the loading issue, which has been significantly improved thanks to your father’s innovation of the paper cartridge,” Caesar had written. Jin marvelled at the way the message had been encouraging and subtly demanding at the same time, goading Jin by reminding him of his father’s accomplishments.

Despite his best efforts, Jin made little progress with his attempts to improve the musket. The weapon seemed to be as good as it could possibly get. Then one of his assistants showed him how recent breakthroughs in steel-making resulted in stronger alloys that could solve the breech-loading problem.

“That’s all well and good,” Jin had responded. “And we’ll pursue it. But the accuracy problem is our top concern, and we’ve hit a wall there.” His colleagues had to sadly agree.

His wife noticed the increased strain that wore upon her husband and, one day, insisted he come home early from the laboratory.

“Come spend some time with your family. You need it,” she said.

Jin had to reluctantly agree. His wife rarely insisted on anything, and he’d learned it was unwise to defy her when she did. When he got home from work, his wife had immediately shooed him outside.

“You’ll only be in the way of the girls and I,” she told him. “Spend some time with Wei. He misses you lately.”

Jin found Wei across the street from their home in a grassy park, tossing a curiously-shaped inflated leather ball back and forth with two of his friends. The ball was round in the middle, but had slightly conical ends. The lads smiled and waved at him as he watched their play with a growing smile. They were quite adept with the ball. His wife was right; watching his son demonstrating his physical prowess was always enjoyable and filled him with pride.

Shortly thereafter, a few more boys showed up, and Jin watched with interest as they began to discuss playing a game involving the ball. He politely declined their invitation to join in the game, citing his “old age”, which earned him some good-natured jeers and laughter.

He watched with interest as they divided themselves into two teams and used some spare blocks of wood lying at the side of the street to mark two “goals”. They then began to play, and Jin quickly understood the purpose of the game: each team was trying to carry the ball into the goal of the opposing team by running with the ball and tossing the ball to one another if they were impeded. The ball-carrier could be stopped by holding him or even knocking him down, but the he could then toss the ball to another boy. Sometimes the ball was intercepted or fumbled or simply wrenched away, at which point it changed hands. The game demanded skill and energy and was enjoyable to watch.

The game remained scoreless for several minutes; the teams seemed evenly matched. Then one of the boys on Wei’s team tossed the ball underhanded to Jin’s son. Wei grabbed the ball out of mid-air, then looked towards the opposing goal. One of his team-mates was running towards it. Wei called out the boy’s name and then, as the opposing team closed in on him, he drew his arm back, preparing to toss the ball overhand.

What happened next took Jin’s breath away.

The ball rose away from Wei’s hand and flew in a long, fast, straight line. Previously, the strangely-shaped ball had wobbled awkwardly when tossed. But Wei’s throw was a thing of beauty, arcing elegantly in a long arc, perfectly aimed towards where his team-mate was running. The ball seemed to float into the arms of Wei’s team-mate, and the boy easily carried it into the opposing goal. Wei’s side shouted; their opponents groaned, but several of them couldn’t help smiling at such a skilful play.

Once Wei’s team-mates had stopped congratulating him, he turned around and was surprised to see his father standing directly behind him. The older man’s eyes were wide with amazement. He reached out and gripped his son’s shoulders.

“How did you do that?” Jin demanded.

“Do what?” Wei asked, suddenly confused.

“The ball!” Jin exclaimed, still wide-eyed. “It flew so far… so straight! How?”

“Oh, that!” Wei said, a smug grin now appearing on his face. “You just flick your wrist when you throw,” the boy explained, demonstrating by gesturing with his hand. “It puts a spin on the ball, so it goes straight, even if you throw it long. It’s easy!”

“Easy for you, Li!” one of his friends said, grinning ruefully and punching Wei playfully in the shoulder. “Everything’s easy for him,” he said to Jin. “It’s incredibly annoying.”

“You’re just jealous,” Wei said, smiling, then turned back to his father. His smile faded. His father was staring into space, as if stunned. “Father? Are you all right?”

“You put a spin on the ball…” Jin said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “A spin…”

Suddenly, Jin clapped his hands together, threw his head back and laughed. He laughed long and loud, laughed until tears were pouring down his face and he was doubled over and clutching his belly.

“Uh… father?” his son asked hesitantly, well aware of the puzzled looks his friends were directing at his father, who suddenly appeared to have taken leave of his senses. “Are you all right?”

Jin nodded, still unable to speak. “I’m fine. Better than ever!” he said, chuckling. He shook his head and smiled to express his disbelief. “Child’s play. Child’s play! Ha!” He suddenly reached out and hugged his son, making the teenager blush. “I love you, my boy. I love you!”

“Um, okay, I love you too…” Wei said, blushing and acutely aware of the surprised stares of his friends.

Jin pushed himself back from the awkward embrace, though the broad smile on his face showed no trace of embarrassment, only elation. He clapped his hands again, then raced back to his home.

“Wow, Wei…” one of his friends said when the older man had gone. “He’s, uh…”

“He’s a genius,” Wei said with a sigh and no trace of a smile. “You know what they can be like…”

[CCRunner]

Princes 14 – Child’s Play

Part 4: Weapons Check

“So how does this work?” Caesar asked as he cradled the weapon in his arms.

“Very much like a musket, but with a few key differences,” Jin explained excitedly. “First of all, pull back on this lever,” he said, pointing to a metal lever near the bottom of the barrel, next to the stock. Caesar did so. “That opens the breech, into which you can insert the cartridge. Pointed end forward.”

Caesar carefully inserted the metallic cartridge into the breach. The new cartridges were enclosed in a metal shell rather than paper, and had one conical end and one flat. Also unlike the paper cartridges, these new ones did not have to be opened before loading; they were entirely self-contained, gunpowder and projectile combined into one small, neat, deadly package.

“Slide the bolt back,” Jin instructed him. Caesar pushed the lever back until it closed with a click. “Now raise the weapon to your shoulder, take aim, and fire.”

Caesar stared down the sights of the weapon. “That target you’ve set up has got to be well over one hundred yards away,” he muttered.

“Two hundred yards, to be precise, Caesar,” Jin said, his voice even and confident. “I understand you’ve been practicing with a musket?”

“Since you were but a beam of light in your father’s eye,” the immortal leader of Rome responded.

“Then you should have no problem hitting that target with this weapon,” Jin assured him. When he saw Caesar was about to lick his index finger, Jin interjected. “No need to check the wind, Caesar. Not at this range.”

Caesar cocked an eyebrow at the engineer’s self-confident tone. He sighted the target, took aim, and squeezed the trigger. With a loud retort, his shot fired. The shell flew out of the breech and landed at his feet and he felt the familiar kick of the weapon into his shoulder. He lowered the barrel and stared at the distant target.

“You hit it, sir,” one of his sharp-eyed aides told him.

“I can see that,” Caesar said, barely hiding his surprise. He could fire a musket all day long at a two-hundred-yard distant target without ever striking it, let alone scoring a bull’s eye. But this new weapon had proved remarkably accurate, even on his first attempt. “What do you call it again, Jin?”

“A rifle, Caesar,” Jin said proudly.

All it had taken was the sight of his own son using a basic principle of physics to accurately throw a ball, and everything had become clear. The conservation of angular momentum meant that an object, such as a ball, or a bullet, rotating around a reference point would continue to rotate around that reference point unless acted upon by some external force. Thus, imparting a spin to a bullet gave it greater accuracy and range. It was an idea so obvious, so simple, that Jin still couldn’t help chuckling when he thought of how he’d missed it all these years.

Once he had the idea, the implementation had been obvious: carve grooves into the barrel of the musket, a process called “rifling”. Then engineer the bullet so that it gripped those grooves when the weapon was fired, thereby imparting a spin to the projectile. Inspired by this innovation, Jin’s team of military engineers had also developed the breech-loading mechanism and the new, simpler, and more aerodynamic cartridges. It had taken a few years to perfect everything, but after decades of little progress, the time seemed to fly by.

The sound of the rifle firing echoed across the field as Caesar took another shot. This one was a perfect bull’s eye.

“Excellent,” Caesar said as he lowered the rifle’s stock from his shoulder. He turned to one of his companions, an angular-featured man with youthful looks but thinning hair. “Septimius. How long will it take your firm to start mass-producing these rifles?”

The man pursed his lips and considered. “It isn’t just the rifling,” he said. “It’s the breech mechanism, and the new cartridges… we’ll have to completely retool our munitions factories. I’d say we can be ready to make these in, say, six months?”

“You have two, or I turn the contract over to your competitor,” Caesar said sharply. “Time is of the essence.”

Septimius inhaled deeply, his eyes widening, then nodded. “I’ll see to it myself, Caesar,” he said, then looked away, his mind already considering how to accomplish the task.

“Are we expecting to be attacked, Caesar?” Jin asked innocently.

Ceasar turned suddenly, his ice-blue eyes staring sharply at Jin in such a way that the military engineer had to suppress a shudder. Then a smile slowly appeared on those ancient, angular features, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“It’s of paramount importance that Rome’s soldiers be as well equipped as possible as soon as possible,” he said in an assuring tone. “They must be prepared for… any eventuality. Don’t you agree, Li Jin?”

“Of course, Caesar,” Jin said with a respectful bow. As he rose, he saw that Caesar and his aides were already walking away, and he could feel his own guts churning.

[CCRunner]

Princes 14 – Child’s Play

Part 5: The Games of Nations

“What do you think?”

Li Jin did not answer his son’s question. He could only stare, dumbfounded.

The uniform of Rome’s legions had changed remarkably, adjusting not only to changing fashions but to the new realities of the gunpowder era. Armour could not hope to prevent injury from the new, powerful weapons, so it had been abandoned. The military had compensated by adopting a more lightweight uniform that allowed troops to be more mobile, both in battle and over long distances. They also compensated through sheer weight of numbers. Rome’s modern legions were larger than ever before.

And Li Wei was determined to be one of those countless soldiers fighting for the glory of Rome. He stood before his shocked father and his teary-eyed mother in his brand new uniform. He wore a high, dark shako upon his head decorated by a single eagle’s feather in the front. A dark blue short coat and white cross-belt adorned his broad chest, while his legs were clad in white breeches that were neatly tucked into dark brown boots. At his side, its stock resting upon the floor, was a Li Rifle—the weapon that Jin and his father had worked their entire lives to create.

Li Jin could not take his eyes away from his uniformed son, who stood so proudly before them in their small home, even though he wanted to wipe the sight from his vision. Eventually, he found his voice.

“You… enlisted,” Jin muttered, stating the obvious. His son nodded proudly. “But… you were accepted into the university…”

Wei shook his head impatiently. “Father, how many times have I told you that I’m not cut out for that type of life? This is what I want to do—to fight for my country, for the greater glory of Rome!”

“No,” Jin whispered. “No!” he said more firmly, shaking his head as he pushed himself up from his chair. “Take it off! I forbid it!”

“Father, please…”

“NO!” Jin shouted. “You are my only son! And you want to throw your life away?”

Something in Wei’s deep brown eyes hardened. He picked up his rifle and held it out towards his father.

“Look at this, father. It’s a Li Rifle. Named after our family. Are you trying to tell me that we can create such a weapon, but that our family is too good to carry them? Are you?”

Jin shook his head and stared angrily at his son. “You foolish child! Rome will be at war soon!”

Wei’s eyes widened excitedly at the news. “Truly?” he said as his lips broadened into a smile. “Are you sure, father?”

Jin was taken aback by the boy’s enthusiasm for conflict. But of course, like so many other young men, he would know nothing of war; no one on the continent had, not for generations. But soon, he would know. Far too soon, if Jin had read Caesar’s behaviour correctly.

“How can you look forward to war? To death?”

Wei looked at his father as though he’d suddenly sprouted horns. “The business of Rome is war, father. We made it a profession. We perfected it! You and grandfather devoted your lives to it,” he said, gesturing toward the rifle. “You honoured our family with your achievement. Would you have me shame our family by refusing to serve?”

To that, Li Jin had no answer. He sat down heavily in his chair, his eyes staring emptily at the floor.

Wei sighed. He couldn’t understand how his father could have devoted his life to developing a military weapon without considering its obvious, logical use.

“My legion leaves for Antium in two days,” Wei said. “I don’t officially have to report in until then. I was hoping to spend that time with my family, but if you’d rather I go…”

“No,” Jin said quietly. “Stay here, with your mother and I, until you have to go. This is your home. You are always welcome here.”



Wei nodded, then reached down and affectionately held his father’s hand for a moment. Then he turned and strode from the room, heading for his own bedroom. Once he’d gone, Jin’s wife, Xue, sat down heavily upon the arm of Jin’s chair. She wiped her eyes and placed one hand upon her husband’s shoulder.

“Do you think… do you think he’ll be all right?” she asked softly.

Jin shook his head. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “I don’t know…”

As his wife gently pressed her head against his and sobbed softly, Jin could only reflect on the enormity of his actions, which he had not appreciated until now. So many boys, just like his own, would be marching to war soon. And they’d be carrying the weapon that bore his family’s name. They’d mete out death to other boys, the children of Mongol or Greek parents—whoever Caesar’s first target would be. All those boys, all of them thinking of glory and honour, none of them with any idea what they were truly getting into. A bitter laugh escaped his lips. Child’s play, he’d called it when the germ of an idea that led to the rifling innovation had occurred to him. Child’s play indeed.

[CCRunner]

Princes 15 – Scipio's Spy

Marcus Scipio and the Mycenian Campaign, 1740 AD

Part 1



The cannon rolled down the cobbled street, making a dreadful racket as they passed; their heavy wooden wheels clattered on the irregular cobblestones, and the ungreased axles groaned and squealed as the wheels turned. Lieutenant Marcus Scipio watched the cannon roll by and couldn’t help wincing.

“You overindulged last night, didn’t you, sir?”

Scipio turned and glared up at the man who’d spoken to him. Sergeant Necalli, “Cal” to his friends, was grinning cheerfully, apparently enjoying his commanding officer’s discomfort. The tall, dark-featured Aztec was standing at attention, his dark blue Rifleman’s uniform doing little to hide his powerful frame. Scipio himself was a tall man, and strong, but Necalli was a giant. Not for the first time, Scipio was thankful that the Sergeant was on his side in this war. But he wasn’t thankful enough not to be annoyed by his Sergeant’s chipper attitude.

“We all bloody overindulged,” Scipio grumbled. “Including you. So how is it that you’re so damned cheerful?”

“Water,” the Aztec responded. Scipio continued to glare at him, but quizzically. “Dehydration causes the hangover, sir,” he explained with an impudent grin.

Scipio now vaguely remembered how the big Aztec had come across a rain barrel during the previous evening’s revelry and had dunked his head in it, a sight which the other men had found extremely comical. He’d then proceeded to drink nearly a quarter of the rain barrel’s contents.

“And here we thought you were just stocking up for a pissing contest,” Scipio muttered. He regretted speaking even as he did so. His head felt incredibly tender, his ears oversensitive to any noise, and his tongue felt fat and dry in his mouth. He could feel that his sandy hair was plastered to his head by sweat beneath his shako, despite the coolness of the day.

But if a hangover was the price he had to pay, he’d pay it. Yes, he’d overindulged the night before, along with most of the Roman army, but no one could hold it against them. They’d fought the first battle of the Mongolian campaign and had taken the city of Mycenian after a protracted fight. Afterwards, the soldiers had celebrated their victory. They had also celebrated simply surviving, not being one of the many Roman casualties, nor the more numerous Mongolian dead. And of course, none of them knew if they’d still be alive to celebrate anything in a day, a week, a month, let alone a year or longer. So they’d gotten drunk, practically the entire Roman army, and Scipio along with them. He’d enjoyed it and had no regrets. Today, however, they all paid the price. The General was seeing to that.

Lieutenant Scipio stole a glance across Mycenian’s town square at his General. Gaius Rutullus Lepidus just sat there on his horse, staring balefully at his men, his dark blue uniform with its gold epaulets immaculate, his high cocked hat perfectly positioned atop his patrician head, concealing most of the close-cropped auburn curls that adorned his head. He was too canny, the General was, to punish the men outright for drunkenness; there would have been too many men to punish and too few to mete out the punishment. Instead, he’d ordered them out onto parade first thing in the morning and made the hungover troops watch… and listen… as the groaning, squealing cannon rolled by. As punishments went, Scipio had to acknowledge ruefully, it was excruciating, and brilliant. He swore that the only thing that rivaled the cannon in volume that morning was the gnashing of hundreds of Riflemen’s teeth.

The last cannon rolled by and left the square, and the men breathed an audible sigh of relief. Then they noticed the General watching them severely and braced themselves for whatever punishment he had in mind for them next.

“Well, I sincerely hope you miserable bastards enjoyed that,” General Lepidus said, speaking loudly and clearly from atop his chestnut brown stallion.

Several of the men around the square smiled ruefully. He was a hard man, they knew, but he’d led them well yesterday--led them to victory. That forgave a lot of sins, or in this case, fiendishly ingenious discipline.

“Just remember this,” the General continued. “From now on, you only get drunk when I give you permission to do so. Next time I’ll do much worse than simply aggravating your hangovers,” he growled. “Dismissed.”

The assembled soldiers perceptibly relaxed now that the ordeal was over. After receiving a nod from his Captain, Lieutenant Scipio turned to his own unit and quietly braced himself.

“Company… dismissed!” he called out, doing his best not wince as the sound of his own voice made his head throb painfully.



“Should we go find some of the hair of the dog that bit you, sir?” Sergeant Necalli asked.

Scipio glared at him. The tall, broad-shouldered Aztec was still irritatingly pleased with himself.

“I’ll settle for a bite to eat,” Scipio responded, “provided I can keep it down.”

Scipio and Necalli had first met on board the transport ship Minerva that had brought them from Rome to Mongolia. The passage had been rough and long, the quarters cramped, the food terrible. Many of the Riflemen, unaccustomed to sea voyages, had become seasick. Many more had threatened to mutiny. Scipio and Necalli had caught wind of the impending mutiny and, with a few other soldiers, had taken it upon themselves to suppress it.

Their actions hadn’t been an act of duty or patriotism on their parts as much as enlightened self-interest. Every man on board a ship that had suffered a mutiny was likely to be punished with a flogging at the very least, regardless of their level of involvement. Nevertheless, the two Riflemen had been promoted for their actions before even seeing their first battle. The experience had also led to the two men forming, if not quite a friendship, at least a partnership—a mutually beneficial relationship between an officer and his sergeant.

The two men turned and strolled out of the city’s central square, heading down a side street. They kept their wits about them, eying each window and door for trouble. They’d won the battle and taken the city yesterday, but the locals, of course, would not welcome these conquerors from a distant continent. There would be unrest and resistance, so they remained watchful.

“You in the mood for army rations,” Necalli asked, “or some of the local fare?”

Scipio gave a brief, derisive laugh. “You think the Mongos will actually serve us?” He asked in a skeptical tone. ‘Mongo’ was, of course, the soldiers’ somewhat pejorative term for the Mongolians. Considering the much coarser terms used yesterday to refer to the enemy during the battle, ‘Mongo’ seemed almost polite in comparison.

Necalli shrugged. “There’s always a few practical-minded businessmen ready to take anyone’s coin,” he said. “Businesswomen, too,” he added, stopping as something in a nearby alley caught his attention.

Scipio turned and looked to where his Sergeant was staring. There, in the darkness of the alley, he could just make out the silhouette of a woman. She stepped out hesitantly into the light, and Scipio’s breath caught. She was Mongolian, and she was quite beautiful.

The woman was a head shorter than Scipio. Her hair was long and dark; her almond-shaped eyes matched her hair colour. Her skin was golden. She wore a white buttoned shirt and a dark green skirt which was just short enough to reveal a few inches of her well-shaped calves; her pert breasts pressed against the fabric of the shirt and immediately caught Scipio’s eye, especially since the top buttons of her shirt were undone, revealing an enticing hint of cleavage.

She favoured Scipio with a come-hither glance and an inviting smile. How long had it been since he’d been with a woman, he wondered? Too damn long. Not since that skirt in the Subura, the tavern-keeper’s wife, the reason Scipio had found it necessary to join the army and get out of Rome until the whole ugly business blew over. He watched the young Mongolian woman approach him and felt the old, familiar hunger starting to catch fire in his body.

“I think I just found the cure for my hangover,” he muttered to Necalli with a grin. He slid his rifle off of his shoulder and handed it to the Sergeant.

“Ask her if she has a friend,” the Aztec replied as he took the weapon.

“Hello, love,” Scipio said to her, his smile broadening. He had a good smile, he knew; he had all his teeth and they were straight and clean.

“Hello, Rome soldier-man,” the Mongolian woman responded. She placed one of her hands upon a white-washed wall and placed the other upon her shapely hip, which she thrust out in a provocative pose. “You want good time?”

“Do I ever,” Scipio said, his tone low and intense.

Even as he approached her, he instinctively evaluated her as a threat. She carried no weapons that he could discern; her clothing was too tight-fitting, pleasantly so in his opinion, to conceal anything. No, she seemed like the genuine article. This pleased Scipio all the more. He’d managed to hang on to some of his coins last night, not spending them all on drink, and would be more than happy to leave a few with this delightful creature.

“I don’t suppose you have a friend around?” Scipio asked, generously remembering Necalli, who was leaning back against the wall on the opposite side of the alley, watching the encounter with a bemused expression on his face.

The woman eyed the big Aztec for a moment, her brows raising in appreciation as she took in the man’s size and masculinity. Then she shrugged.

“I do you, then I do him. Okay?” she said.

Scipio turned to glance at Necalli and grinned. “Rank has its privileges,” he quipped. Necalli just rolled his eyes.

“I have place. In here,” she said, indicating a doorway behind her with a brief nod of her head. “Two Rome coin each, okay?”

“Sounds fair to me, love,” Scipio said agreeably. She took his hand to lead him down the alley.

“See you in a minute, sir,” Necalli called after him. Scipio turned around briefly and held up his index and middle fingers, the back of his hand towards his Sergeant. The Aztec smirked and chuckled lowly at the rude gesture.

The woman led Scipio a few paces down the alley. He followed her into a doorway and found himself in the empty storeroom of what appeared to be a disused general goods store. He glanced around for a mattress but saw none.

“Standing up then?” he said with a smirk. “Fine by me, love…”

Suddenly the smile disappeared from Scipio’s face. Even in the dim light of the abandoned shop, he could see the change that had come over the woman, and it startled him. Gone was the enticing, come-hither stare. She was staring at him levelly in a manner that reminded him of a cat eying prey. He knew that look that had suddenly appeared upon her face. He’d seen it enough times in the Subura back home. This was no mere prostitute; she was a predator. Instinctively, his right hand moved to his belt, to the knife he carried there.

The woman made a derisive sound as she watched him.

“Relax, lieutenant,” she said in clear, unaccented Latin. “You’re not in any danger. Unless you try to rape me, in which case I’ll take that knife and relieve you of your manhood before you make another move.”

“What the hell…?” Scipio said, his pale blue eyes opening wide as he stared at the woman.

“I don’t have much time,” she said. “I have a message for the General.”

“Lepidus?” Scipio said, his mind still reeling.

“Is there another Roman General in Mongolia?” the woman asked him with more than just a little sarcasm in her voice.

Scipio still struggled to clear away his confusion. “I’ve never even spoken to…” he began to say.

“I’m going to tell you something,” the woman went on as though he hadn’t spoken. “A set of phrases. It will mean nothing to you. But you must memorize it and relay it, word for word, to General Lepidus himself. Understand?”

Scipio nodded; his mind was finally catching up to the situation. Even so, he felt completely out of his depth.

“I’m no spy…” he began to say.

“I’m well aware of that,” the woman muttered impatiently. “But you’ll have to do.”

There was a noise out in the street in front of the shop. The woman’s body jerked suddenly in alarm and she turned to look through a doorway to the store’s grimy front windows that were partially boarded up. She briefly saw a child run by. Her slender shoulders slumped as she breathed a sigh of relief.

“You’re in danger,” Scipio observed.

“My, you’re a quick one, aren’t you?” the Mongolian woman said in a cutting tone.

“Maybe you should come with me and my Sergeant and deliver this message in person,” Scipio suggested.

The woman blinked twice, expressing her surprise. Then an amused half-smile appeared upon her lips.

“Very gallant,” she said. “But completely impractical. Now listen closely. ‘Hercules has cleaned the stables, and is rounding up the mares. The lion is slain. The cattle remain free.’” She made him repeat the statement several times to prove to her that he had memorized it.

“There’s a problem, though,” Scipio told her. “I’m just a lieutenant. The General won’t give me the time of day.”

“Just tell them the message is from Larentia,” she said, and made him repeat the name several times as well. “I have to go,” she said suddenly.

With that, she turned away from him and cautiously made her way through the darkened store towards its front door. Scipio’s mind was still whirling; he stood and watched her go. She opened the store’s creaking front door and stepped into the street.

Just then, Scipio heard a man’s voice shout and saw Larentia tense. She turned to her right, away from the voice, and took a step as if she was about to break into a run, but then stopped. She turned around and grasped the handle of the store’s door, but she never got a chance to open it. In a heartbeat, over a half dozen Mongolian men swarmed around her. Scipio watched as she quickly struck and felled two of them with skill and grace, but their numbers overwhelmed her. They grabbed her arms and held them tightly and painfully behind her back. One man, a tall, burly fellow who was apparently the ringleader, stepped forward and slapped her face, hard. She shook her head, then glared at the man and spat into his face. He slapped her again, and this time her head slumped forward.

Scipio felt his gorge rising. His teeth gnashed and his hands clenched into fists. He was about to run out of the darkened shop to her aid when suddenly she looked up and her dark eyes gazed directly into his. She gave a brief, barely susceptible shake of her head. Then the men holding her pulled her upright and dragged her away.

The leader of the gang remained standing out in front of the store. He turned and looked through its grimy windows. Scipio took a step back into the darkness deep in the abandoned store, but his eyes remained riveted on the face peering in towards him. The man was tall for a Mongolian, as tall as Scipio himself; he had a broad face and two long, thin mustaches that dropped down on either side of his mouth towards his chin. His eyes were narrow and hard, his mouth equally so. Scipio memorized every feature, hoping in his heart to see that face again when he had the advantage. Then the man grunted and walked away.

“I was right,” Necalli said with a grin a moment later when Scipio reappeared in the alley. “That didn’t take you…” his voice trailed off as he noticed the grim look on the officer’s face.

“Come on, Cal,” Scipio muttered as he retrieved his rifle from the big sergeant, “let’s go.”

“Where? What the hell is going on?” Scipio turned to glare at him, so Necalli quickly added, “Sir.”

“I have to go recite a bit of nonsense to the General,” Scipio replied. “A woman may have just given her life for it, so it damn well better mean something to somebody.”

[CCRunner]

Princes 15 - Scipio's Spy

Part 2



A great oak door opened, and a heavy-set man in a dark blue coat with gold buttons and clean white breeches walked out. The sword hanging from his left hip indicated he was an officer, the red sash around his waist—not to mention his presence in the general’s chambers—meant he was a high-ranking one. Scipio quickly spied the two silver epaulets on the man’s shoulders and then knew the man held the rank of Major. He had short brown hair and a long, drooping mustache, and the way he eyed Scipio reminded the rifleman of how a cat sized up a mouse in the dark, dirty alleyways back home.

“Lieutenant Scipio?” the man said, and Scipio was on his feet at full attention in an instant.

“Sir!” he said, staring at a spot on the wall just above the Major’s head.

“At ease, Lieutenant,” the Major said.

The right side of man’s mouth twitched upward for a moment, indicating he found Scipio’s adherence to rigid army formality—which only served to advertise his anxiety—mildly amusing. Bastard, Scipio thought as he relaxed his stance as much as his body let him.

“Follow me,” the Major said.

A good soldier, Scipio did as he was told. He followed the Major into a large chamber, still decorated in simple Mongolian style and native woods, but now sporting some Roman additions, such as several large flags, all bearing a gold oak crown on a field of purple, the standard of Rome. At the far end of the room, two golden eagles atop oak staffs stood on either side of a large desk; behind the desk, on the wall, was a portrait of a man wearing the purple-striped toga of a senator, a patch over one eye, and, more significantly, a grass crown upon his head. At the desk sat a man with auburn hair speckled with grey that formed short, tight curls upon his head. He was dressed in a blue coat with gold epaulets, and was studying several papers in front of him.

Scipio followed the Major to the front of the desk, where the officer cleared his throat to get the General’s attention. The man at the desk looked up, then gently laid the sheet of paper he’d been studying upon his desk and slowly rose to his feet.

“General Gaius Rutullus Lepidus,” the Major said, “may I present Lieutenant Marcus Scipio.”

“Sir!” Scipio said, assuming a stance of full attention yet again.

“At ease, at ease,” the General said with a wave of his hand. He strode casually from behind his desk until he was standing in front of it and staring hard at Scipio, who did his best to stand steady before that intense, unwavering gaze.

“Tell me what she said,” the General ordered without preamble. “Verbatim, Lieutenant. Every word, exactly.”

Scipio repeated his message, fully aware of the General’s intense gaze that seemed capable of seeing clear through into the depths of his soul. Though the message meant nothing to him, he was aware that it was code and could have deep meaning for these two men, and therefore for the war. Scipio also assumed that the lovely young Mongolian woman who called herself Larentia had very likely risked her life to deliver the message to him.

When he finished, the General turned to Major Scaurus. The two senior officers shared a long, silent look that nevertheless seemed to convey a great deal of unspoken information. Then the General turned from Scipio and walked back behind his desk, his face pensive.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Scaurus said brightly, with a feigned friendliness that made Scipio all too aware that he was about to be dismissed. “That will be…”

“There’s more, sir,” Scipio said.

“More?” Scaurus said, his expression suddenly suspicious. “You did give us the entire message, didn’t you, Lieutenant?” he asked, his tone implying that there would be trouble for Scipio if he was holding out on them for some reason.

“Yes sir, every word,” Scipio replied. “But after she gave me the message, the woman was captured, sir. By a bunch of Mongos… sorry, Mongolians. They were… treating her quite rough, sir.”

A long, heavy silence hung in the room. Scipio watched as the Major and General shared yet another silent but significant communicative glance.

“Unfortunate,” the General said with a sigh, his lips pressed together grimly. “She’s been very useful to us.”

“Indeed she has, sir.” Scaurus said.

Every sensible instinct he possessed told Scipio to keep his mouth shut. He knew that the best thing he could do would be to deliver a smart salute and then beat a hasty retreat. But some other part of him wouldn’t let it go. He was all too familiar with that part of himself; it was the very reason he was in uniform fighting in Mongolia rather than relaxing in a tavern on the other side of the world. He could no more deny it than he could stop breathing.

“Sirs,” he said, and felt a cold sweat break out on his skin as the two senior officers suddenly focused their attention on him. They both looked somewhat appalled that he even had the temerity to speak up, but Scipio ploughed ahead. “Surely she must still be in the city somewhere. Some sort of… rescue operation can’t be out of the question, can it?”

The Major and the General were silent for a moment. Then Major Scaurus began to chuckle, a low, mocking laugh that made the blood rise to Scipio’s cheeks.

“Rescue?” Scaurus said. “Oh, you are a gallant one, aren’t you, Lieutenant?”

“She’s obviously been acting as a Roman agent, sir,” Scipio continued, though the sensible part of his brain was silently screaming at him to stop. “Surely we owe her…”

“That is quite enough, Lieutenant,” the General said testily. “I don’t need to be lectured about quid pro quo with our agents by my junior officers.”

Scipio’s teeth gnashed together and he stared long and hard at his general, long enough to be considered insubordinate. Just as Lepidus’ brows rose, Scipio lifted his gaze to a spot on the wall above the General’s head and brought himself to attention.

“Sir!” he said, checking the anger he felt.

Lepidus sighed heavily and rose from behind his desk. “In war,” he said to Scipio in a tone that was surprisingly gentle, “sacrifices must be made. If you try to keep everyone from getting killed, you wind up getting them all killed. Perhaps if you rise higher in the ranks you’ll come to understand that, Lieutenant.”

“Sir,” Scipio said, his anger at the General’s seeming callousness dissipating. Even so, the abandonment of the woman continued to bother him.

Lepidus turned and marched back to his desk, nodding at Scaurus as he did so.

The Major simply turned to Scipio and said, “Dismissed, Lieutenant.”

[CCRunner]

Princes 15 - Scipio's Spy

Part 3



“Bloody rifles,” Corporal Ancus Silo muttered.

His comment came on the tail end of the other Riflemen’s grumblings about their billet, a somewhat derelict warehouse near Mycenian’s port district. The roof leaked, rats scurried across the floor, and the place reeked of sulphur and potash and other goods that once had been stored there. What any of the complaints had to do with their weapons was unclear to an uninformed observer, but among the men of Rome’s 14th Legion, the comment prompted the usual response: appreciative chuckles from the other men, and a heavy sigh from Private Li Wei.

If only, Wei told himself, he’d had the sense to keep to himself the fact that he was the son of the man who had developed the Li rifle, which was standard issue in their unit. As soon as the other riflemen had found out, he’d spent the entirety of an evening listening to a litany of complaints about the weapon. Most of the problems were a result of manufacturer’s defects, poor maintenance, or simply the heavy use the weapons endured during warfare, but Wei became the de facto sounding board for every little issue with the rifles.

And then it got worse. Before long, whenever anything went wrong, the men blamed it on the rifles. Especially if Wei was within earshot, the implication being that his father and by extension he himself was somehow to blame if their biscuit was too hard, the weather too cold, or the officers were in a foul mood. Something would go wrong, a man would mutter “bloody rifles”, and all eyes would stray to Wei. And they’d laugh.

The young private felt a hand on his shoulder. “You shouldn’t take it so hard, my young friend,” Private Lallena told him. “It’s just a little good-natured ribbing,” the Spaniard insisted.

Wei’s lips pressed together. “It’s a slight on my family’s honour,” he muttered.

“No it isn’t!” Lallena said with a laugh. “It’s a joke, and you should regard it as such. It’s even a sign of acceptance and dare I say affection. Though frankly, that heavy sigh you give each time the rifles get blamed for something is a cherished part of the routine, so by all means keep it up.”

Wei rolled his eyes, which only made his Spanish friend laugh yet again. Then he shrugged and laughed. Perhaps Miguel had a point, he thought…

Wei’s ruminations were interrupted by the sound of the warehouse door slamming open, followed by several heavy, rapid footfalls. The men fell silent. Lieutenant Scipio had returned from his audience with the General, and he was in a foul mood, that much was obvious.

Sergeant Necalli followed Scipio as he stormed into the warehouse. The Lieutenant stomped past his men and went straight into the former shipping/receiving office, now his makeshift quarters. He slammed the door behind him.

“I take it that our esteemed Lieutenant’s meeting with el General did not go well?” Lallena said to Necalli.

The big Sergeant shrugged his broad shoulders. “He wouldn’t say, but it’s a safe bet,” he commented.

“What’s all this about, anyway?” Wei asked.

Necalli told the young private as much as he knew: that he and Scipio had met a Mongolian woman who was, in fact, some sort of Roman agent. She’d given Scipio a message for General Lepidus, then she’d run off and gotten captured by some local ruffians—probably resistance fighters, or worse. Wei shuddered a little upon hearing the story; he could well imagine how a perceived traitor would be treated. The fact that she was a woman would make her punishment all the more sordid and gruesome.

A few minutes went by, and the men’s interest in the Lieutenant’s business with the General quickly waned. Necalli pulled out a deck of cards, and Silo, Wei, and Lallena joined him, sitting upon barrels around a wooden crate to play a hand or two of whist, a game imported from England that had become very popular in all of Rome’s territories. They’d just dealt the first hand when Scipio opened the door to his quarters and stepped out. The tall lieutenant’s eyes roamed about the warehouse for a moment, then came to rest on the four riflemen playing cards.

Necalli sighed. “So much for our game, lads. Here it comes…” he muttered.

Scipio walked up to the group of four riflemen. “I’m going for a walk,” he announced. They looked up at him expectantly. “I think it would be a good idea to mingle with the locals. Make their acquaintance and such. Chat them up. You never know what interesting things they might have to say to you, once you persuade them to loosen their tongues.”

Necalli knew where this was heading. “The General said there would be no rescue effort,” he reminded his officer.

“He said he wouldn’t launch one, that’s true,” Scipio said. “But he didn’t order me not to attempt such a thing myself. Besides, who said anything about a rescue? I’m just going for a walk.”

“In an enemy city we just captured yesterday?” Silo said. The Corporal was a sly man in early middle age, a poacher from Capua. His profession explained why he was in the army, as well as how he had become a crack shot.

“Well,” Scipio said, “if some of my men want to accompany me on my little stroll—to valiantly protect their officer, or just for company—I can hardly object. Not that I’m asking. Let alone ordering. Understand?” The riflemen glanced at one another, then nodded.

“Aren’t we awaiting orders or something?” Wei ventured.

Scipio looked at the young Private sharply. “That we are. In the meantime, our time is our own. Word is that Lepidus is deploying our guerrilla troops on the hills east of the city in anticipation of a counter-attack. The 14th is specialized in city raiding; that leaves us with some time on our hands, doesn’t it, Private Li? So. You can sit around in this musty, rat-infested warehouse. Or you can come with me for a walk in the fresh air.”

And attempt to rescue a woman, he didn’t say, but every man heard it. And attempt to rescue a female Roman spy from the men who’ve captured her and may be torturing her as we speak…

As one, the four riflemen rose to their feet.



“Nice evening for a walk,” Silo commented.

“Night air is good for the constitution,” Lallena agreed cheerfully.

“I had my fill of whist on the trip over anyway,” Necalli muttered. “And besides, the Spaniard cheats.”

Lallena’s mouth dropped open. “I damned well do not, you big mentula!” he shouted in indignation.

Necalli cast an amused sideways glance at him. “And why exactly did you join the army, anyway?” he asked with a knowing grin.

“I don’t cheat anymore…” Lallena muttered as he shuffled his feet.

“We should grab our ‘bloody rifles’, shouldn’t we?” Wei commented with a wry grin.

“That we should, lad,” Silo said with a smile, “that we should. Bayonets too, and several rounds of ammunition. You’d be surprised what sort of game you can find, even in the midst of a city.”

A few minutes later, the five riflemen left their makeshift barracks and walked out into the streets of the captured Mongolian city. The sun was setting in the west, visible as a burning orange orb across the Bay of Mycenian. Above it, the scattered clouds were the colour of blood.

[CCRunner]

Princes 15 - Scipio's Spy

Part 4



Jambyn Bayar looked up from the glass he was drying as five Roman riflemen walked into his tavern. He barely managed to withhold a curse. As if their mere presence here wasn’t bad enough, each of them was armed; all five men had rifles slung over their shoulders, while the officer also had a sword in a scabbard hanging from a belt around his hips. As the soldiers entered, the conversation in the room died. Over two dozen Mongolian men eyed these representatives of the conquering army warily.

The officer in the lead of the group was a tall, sandy-haired man, who was nodding to the local patrons as though they were acquaintances he saw every day. The officer’s smile and friendly manner did not deceive Bayar in the least; the man had a lean, hard look to him and moved like he knew how to handle himself. At his right shoulder was a mountain of a man with bronze skin and dark features; the mere sight of him convinced any Mongolians in the bar who were considering attacking these soldiers to restrain themselves. The other three riflemen looked no less confident and formidable.

And why shouldn’t they be confident, Bayar asked himself quietly. The Romans had arrived in force, as he’d known they would, and had captured Mycenian after a single day’s fighting. The Mongolian’s own riflemen had been unable to withstand the withering barrage from those Roman cannon. Bayar could still hear the echoing booms in his head, like deadly thunder that had made his children weep in terror. Just the sound alone had been enough to unnerve many of the defending troops; the terrifying effects of the cannonballs on them had been even worse.

But the Romans were here now—in Mongolia, in Mycenian, and now, of all places, in his bar. Bayar had little choice, therefore, but to force a wary grin onto his face and acknowledge the soldiers as they walked up to his bar. A half-dozen Mongolians vacated the bar as they approached; the Romans appeared to not notice this at all. The officer sat down on one of the stools while his men remained standing and turned to watch the crowd.

“D’you speak Latin?” Scipio asked Bayar.

“Some,” the bartender admitted.

“Whiskey,” Scipio ordered as he tossed a bronze Roman sestertius onto the counter.

Bayar stared at the coin without making a move to pick it up. “We no take Rome coin,” he said in broken Latin.

“Well you’d better damn well start,” Scipio said in a low tone that made no attempt to conceal the threat it contained. He smiled, then turned to look back at the other patrons who were watching him and his men sullenly. “You’d all better get used to having us around,” he said loudly. “When Romans go somewhere, we tend to stay. Just ask my Spanish or my Aztec friend here,” he went on, pointing at Lallena and Necalli in turn.

“They’re stubborn,” Necalli conceded with a shrug of his massive shoulders.

“Like barnacles,” Lallena added.

“So how about that drink?” Scipio said over his shoulder. Bayar sighed, took the coin from the counter, and reached for a bottle. “Not the cheap rotgut,” Scipio said, without even turning around to watch the barkeep.

Bayar’s hand drifted to a different bottle. He uncorked it an poured its contents into a glass for the Roman officer.

Scipio took a sip from the glass and rolled it around in his mouth. His brows rose. “Not bad,” he said, then tossed the rest of the drink back. “If you Mongos can make whiskey like this, I think we’ll get along just fine!”

“I no want trouble,” Bayar said to him nervously. “This good place.”

“We don’t want trouble either, friend,” Scipio said as he turned around on his chair to look at the barkeep. He lowered his voice so that only the barkeep could hear him. “In fact, you might be able to do us a favour. Then we’d be in your debt. That’s a very nice place to be, having Romans owing you something. Rather than the other way around.”

Bayar’s brows furrowed and his dark, narrow eyes regarded the Roman with undisguised suspicion. “What favour?” he asked warily. His eyes shifted to the other tavern patrons. He was well aware that cooperating with the invading army could earn him a world of trouble. He might have little choice in the matter, but that excuse would not curry any favour with the local resistance leaders. And Bayar had a wife and three children to worry about…

“I’m looking for someone,” Scipio said, still keeping his voice low. “Mongolian, tall bugger—tall as me. Broad face, two long moustaches,” he said, gesturing at his own face with one hand to illustrate his description. “Nasty fellow. You know him?”

As Scipio watched, the tavern owner’s eyes widened momentarily. Then he dropped his gaze to stare at the bar. “I no can help you,” he said.

“You know him, don’t you?” Scipio said. He reached into his money pouch for another coin, gritting his teeth when he felt how few were left there. He reluctantly brought out his last silver denarius and placed it on the bar.

“I say I no can help you!” Bayar shouted. “You keep money! I no can help!” He turned away from the Romans and wiped the sweat from his brow.

Scipio paused, staring at the bartender a moment longer. “Fine then, friend,” he said. “Thanks for the drink.”

He got up and walked out, his men following him. Only when the door closed behind them did Bayar let out the breath he’d been holding.

***

A couple of hours later, Bayar closed and locked the tavern’s front door and his shoulders sagged. He knew it was inevitable that some Romans might find their way to his establishment, but so soon? And then for them to start asking about Manlai! Trouble like that he didn’t need. At least they’d left without any fuss. He hoped that any other Romans that made their way into his tavern would want nothing more than a drink.

He told himself to relax. All told, it hadn’t gone too badly. Everyone there had seen him do no more and no less than any good Mongolian could be expected to do, under the circumstances. Refusing to serve them would have just resulted in trouble; but at the same time, he’d refused to give them anything more than what his establishment offered. Bayar allowed himself a smile and let his thoughts drift to his wife and his three children, who would all be asleep upstairs by now. He’d just sneak a peek in on them, as he did every night…

“Hello, friend.”

Bayar gasped and instinctively took a step back. He turned to his right, and there he was: the tall, sandy-haired Roman. He didn’t see his companions, but they couldn’t be far. Bayar nervously glanced around the bar even though he knew they were alone.

“I no your friend!” Bayar insisted. “You go!”

“I’m not going until you tell me what I want to know,” Scipio said. “You know the man I’m looking for. Who is he, and how do I find him?”

Bayar shook his head. “You no want to find him,” he said.

“Oh, but I do. You see, the big bastard took off with a Mongolian woman of my acquaintance. Pretty little thing, too. He’s probably torturing her—hurting her right now, as we speak. You can help me stop that.”

“I no can help—“

“Are Mongolian women fair game, then?” Scipio asked pointedly. “Is that what you people go in for? You treat your women as punching bags?”

Bayar didn’t understand every word that the Roman had said, but he caught the gist of it, and it made the gorge rise in his throat. He thought of his own beloved, precious wife, as well as his two daughters. He drew himself up, summoning what national pride he could muster.

“No!” he asserted. “We treat women good. Mongolian women, they get re… re…”

“Respect?” Scipio prompted him. The barkeep nodded. “Yes, well, that’s not what this woman I’m worried about is getting. What she’s getting is tortured, and eventually killed. You can help me stop that.”

Bayar stood there, his head shaking, his mind filled with images of the same fate befalling his own wife and girls. The best way to protect them was to send this man away without any help. But what if it was his own wife, or one of his girls, in Manlai’s hands? Wouldn’t he want someone, anyone, even a Roman, to rescue them?

Scipio was about to turn and walk away when he heard the man mutter something. “What was that?” he asked.

“Manlai,” Bayar said. “His name Manlai. I not know where you find him, but you ask, you find.”

Scipio nodded. Things worked much the same way in the Subura back home. If you made enough noise looking for one of the local bosses, eventually they’d come to you, or bring you to them, just to find out what the fuss was about. Men like that operated in the shadows; it wasn’t good for their business to have someone stumbling around, reminding the world that they existed.

Scipio reached inside his money pouch for a coin, but Bayar shook his head and held up his hand.

“No Rome coin. Bad if I have many,” he said.

Scipio nodded. “All right then,” he said. “My name is Lieutenant Marcus Scipio. If you ever need a favour, you come and ask for me.” He then turned and left, leaving by way of the tavern’s back door, the same way he’d come in. Necalli was waiting for him in the dark alley outside.

“Anything?” the big Aztec whispered.

“A name,” Scipio said. “It’s a start.”

The Sergeant nodded, and they warily walked down the alley to rendezvous with their three companions. Back inside, in the living quarters above the tavern, Bayar’s children were sleepily puzzled when their father pulled each of them out of bed to embrace and kiss them in turn.

[CCRunner]

Note: Sorry for the lack of screenshots for this entry, but it's been a while since the last update and I didn't want to keep you folks waiting any longer...


Princes 15 - Scipio's Spy

Part 5

“Someone’s asking about you,” Bekhter said.

Manlai turned to face him. “Who?” he asked after a moment’s hesitation. He had a broad face that rarely displayed any emotion at all. Many men assumed, upon first meeting him, that he was stupid: the broad face, the lack of expression, the slow manner of his speech were all reasons for this. And they were all misleading. They soon came to realize the error of their assumption. Many came to regret it. Deeply.

“A Roman. An officer,” Bekhter told him.

Manlai stroked his moustache with his thumb and his forefinger. “Has he said what it’s about?”

“Not that I’ve heard,” the other man said. “You think it has something to do with our guest?”

Manlai then shook his head. “I doubt that. The Romans wouldn’t be so stupidly obvious.”

“What do you want to do about it?”

“Have this Roman informed that I’ll be at the Jargal teahouse for lunch. I’ll find out what he wants with me there.”

The man nodded and walked out of the room, allowing Manlai to return his attention to the interrogation. He nodded to the other two men in the room, and they responded by tilting the long wooden board back so that the end that had been immersed in the basin came up out of it. The woman who was strapped upside-down to the board coughed and sputtered and gasped for breath as her head finally came out of the water.

“Once again, Nara,” Manlai said to her. “What was the last message you passed along to the Romans?”

The young woman panted down several breaths. Her dark eyes stared back into his, and he could see the anger and the spite was still there, even after several hours of this treatment that left her gasping and shuddering as each dunking brought her within a hair’s breadth of drowning. Still she said nothing. A stubborn one, and strong, he silently acknowledged, but she would break. Everyone did, sooner or later. Manlai grunted, then nodded to the other two men. She barely had time to gasp down another breath before her head plunged back under water again.

***

“You speak pretty good Latin,” Scipio said. “You know, for a Mongo.”

Manlai gave the slightest of nods, acknowledging the compliment and ignoring the insult. “It’s always wise to know the ways of one’s adversary,” he said. Scipio just shrugged and stared at him blankly. “I hear you’ve been looking for me,” he said from across the table. His right hand idly held a small glass of tea. Scipio had refused some when offered.

“Yeah, well, I’ve got a bone to pick with you,” Scipio said. “The way I see it, you owe me a denarius. That’s half a month’s pay to me, so it’s not small change.”

“How so?” Manlai asked, his face impassive. He’d studied and practiced the stone face since he’d been a child, and was a master at it. The Roman officer sitting across from him, on the other hand, could barely sit still.

“One of your girls, she cheated me!” Scipio said indignantly.

“One of my girls…?” Manlai said evenly.

“Oh, don’t act all innocent,” Scipio said. “We’re men of the world, aren’t we? I’ve heard about you. You run the girls in this town. Well, one of them took my money yesterday and didn’t give me what I had coming.”

Manlai shook his head as he raised his glass of tea. “You must be mistaken,” the Mongolian told him. “My girls never…”

“Her name was Larentia,” Scipio said.

And for one of the very few times in his life, Manlai failed to maintain his stone face. His brows rose, and his glass of tea stopped half-way to his lips.

“Ah, that rings a bell, doesn’t it?” Scipio said accusingly. “She took my money and ran off without me getting what I’d paid for. What kind of a business are you running, anyhow? If you cheat every soldier in the Roman army this way, there’s going to be trouble, my friend.”

“Larentia…” Manlai said. “I may know of her,” he said cautiously. “But I’d have to know more about your transaction with her if we’re to settle this amicably. You wouldn’t happen to remember what she said to you…?”

Scipio frowned and shook his head. “She jabbered some sort of nonsense at me like it was supposed to mean something. Like I could remember—I was hungover, and she was supposed to be the cure for it,” he said with a smile. “Now look. I’m not an unreasonable man. You settle up with me, give me my denarius back, and I won’t go spreading word around the barracks that your girls are skippers. Deal?”

Manlai took a deep breath. “I’ll want to make my own enquiries about this matter. Come back here tonight for dinner, and we’ll resolve this.”

Scipio sighed, then pushed back from the table and stood up. “You’d damned well better be here,” he said, then glanced angrily at the other three big, burly Mongolians seated beside Manlai at the next table. “You can bring your girlfriends along again if they make you feel safer,” he said with a derisive laugh, then turned and walked towards the door.

Once he was gone, Manlai turned to look at Bekhter, who was standing by the back entrance of the teahouse. Manlai nodded, and a heartbeat later, Bekhter had disappeared.

***

There was really only one question running through Scipio’s mind as he walked out of the teahouse and turned down a nearby alley that led towards the Roman garrison’s barracks. Now or later?

He caught the movement behind him and to his right. He had to fight off the instinct to react quickly enough. Instead, he allowed the blow to come, which it did, hard into his side just above the kidney. He did his best to roll with it. It still hurt like hell. Then the black cloth bag came down over his head, blinding him, and more blows, until he sagged to the ground and felt them tying his hands behind his back. Then he felt hands grabbing hold of him under his arms, and he was dragged down the alley.

He reflected that it was ironic: he had no idea where they were taking him, and yet he knew exactly where he was going. Before long, he knew, he’d be seeing Larentia again. He just hoped it wouldn’t be for the last time.

[CCRunner]

Princes 15 - Scipio's Spy

Part 6



Darkness and pain.

That was what Scipio’s world consisted of at the moment. The cloth over his head cut out all light; he couldn’t see where he was going and constantly stumbled into his captors, or tripped over curbs or stairs. And when he did any of those things, the pain came: the men around him expressed their displeasure with his clumsiness by punching or kicking him.

The only other constant was movement. His captors kept him in motion, hence their surly impatience. Scipio speculated that they must be proceeding down city streets or alleys, in full view of the citizenry. In any Roman city, the sight of a group of thugs forcing a hooded and bound man down a street would have elicited comment if not intervention. But not here. No, based upon his limited and recent experience with people such as the intimidated and fearful barkeep, Scipio knew he could expect no help from the locals. But then again, he wasn’t expecting any.

His boot caught on something and then his shoulder bumped against a hard surface. Scipio grunted as someone punched his side; he instinctively flinched away and his opposite shoulder also hit something hard—a door frame? He took a couple of steps forward, and then the sound of a door closing behind him confirmed his assumption.

He was prodded through the house, or building, or whatever it was. Eventually the men guiding him came to a stop. The sharp kick of a boot at the back of his knees made him collapse. Scipio cursed as his knees painfully struck against the hardwood floor. With his hands tied behind his back, he would have fallen forward onto his face, but a beefy hand clasped his shoulder and kept him upright.

Then the hood was pulled from his head, and even in the dim light of the room in which he found himself, Scipio blinked as his eyes adjusted to something other than the darkness they’d endured for the last several minutes.

The Roman officer found himself in what must once have been a grand house that had fallen on hard times. The walls were covered by dark wooden panels that were worn and stained in places by water and mould. Two windows, one on either side of him, reluctantly allowed a sickly yellowish light to strain through the dust that had collected on them. The hardwood floor was worn, its varnish practically gone except directly beside the walls and in the corners where there was little foot traffic. The place smelled of mildew and neglect, and of sweat and human waste. It smelled of fear. And of something else, a scent Scipio knew, but couldn’t place just yet…

He turned his attention from his environment to the people within it. Standing directly before him, his arms crossed, was a burly Mongolian with a broad face and an unreadable expression. He recognized him instantly: Manlai, the local crime boss he’d confronted earlier. Scipio glanced briefly at the men who were standing on either side of him and recognized some of the bully-boys who’d been with Manlai at the teahouse. He frowned and instantly assumed the role of the disgruntled and slightly stupid Roman officer he’d played earlier. The anger came easily to him; Scipio didn’t like being manhandled, even when it had been part of his plan.

“What the hell is going on here?” he demanded, spitting the words at Manlai. “I’m a Roman officer, you moon-faced Mongo bast…”

Scipio’s invective was cut off when the Mongolian standing to his right suddenly kicked his side. Scipio anticipated the move and twisted just enough to avoid having the man’s boot painfully strike his kidney, but he embellished his reaction to give them the impression that the blow was as painful as had been intended. He also stilled his tongue.

“You are not a Roman officer here,” Manlai told him calmly. “You are a stinking piece of dog turd that attached itself to my boot. I’m going to scrape you off and leave you to rot, and I’m going to enjoy it.”

Scipio’s only response to this was to glare at his captor—though he allowed a certain amount of fear to register in his expression. It wasn’t hard to summon it; his whole plan—indeed, his life—hung by the slenderest of threads. Instinctively, the fingers of one of his tied hands gingerly touched his boot heel. Yes, it was still there, Scipio noted with some relief…

“Bring the girl,” Manlai ordered one of his lieutenants.

They waited in silence, Scipio on his knees, his captors standing around him and glaring at him. Ever the soldier, Scipio did a quick assessment of the forces arrayed against him: six men, all told, including the one who’d left to get Larentia. The two men standing on either side of Scipio were strong and alert, as was Manlai. There were two others, standing behind their leader on either side of a door, each with a musket leaning against the wall behind them. They seemed bored. Scipio harboured a secret hope that they wouldn’t react quickly enough when the time came. He knew, or at least hoped that time was coming soon, so he surreptitiously pulled the item from his boot that he’d hidden there. His two guardians were standing beside him, with no one behind him, and that meant he could work undetected.

His ruminations were interrupted when the man who’d left came back into the room. Beside him was the slender Mongolian woman Scipio had met in the alley. That had occurred only two days before, but Larentia looked as though she’d aged ten years in the meantime. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes were half-closed and looked around glassily; her raven-black hair was a lanky unkempt mess that hung about her face. One eye was blackened and swollen shut, her lower lip was split, and her normally-golden skin looked sallow now. Her captor had one hand under her armpit and another around her waist; she swayed unsteadily in his unsympathetic grip. She looked as though she’d collapse to the floor if he let her go. Her eyes drifted in Scipio’s direction, but he saw no sign of recognition there. She wore a long, formless shift that had probably been white at some time but was now a sickly grey colour. There were blood stains on the cloth, and they appear relatively fresh.

Scipio cursed silently, both in reaction to the rough treatment Larentia had apparently received, but also in response to her current state which would render her not just useless, but a burden. He’d hoped that she’d still have some fight left in her when he found her.

Then he remembered the role he was supposed to be playing and reacted accordingly.

“That’s her!” Scipio exclaimed. “That’s the doxie that ripped me off!” He looked her up and down and sneered. “Looks like you got what you deserved, girlie.” He turned back to Manlai. “What’s your beef with me, then? Look, if it’s the money, fine, I’ll write it off as one of life’s nasty little lessons. But…”

“What did she tell you?” Manlai asked him, as if Scipio hadn’t said a word.

“What?” Scipio replied, feigning innocence. “What do you mean?”

“What did she say to you? She relayed a message of some type, yes?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about…” Scipio said, then cried out in pain as the man next to him kicked him in the side again.

“Do not lie to me,” Manlai said, his expression calm, but his voice taking on a cold, hard-edged tone. “Tell me exactly what she said to you.”

Scipio grimaced and shrugged. He gave the bonds around his wrists an experimental tug. Almost there…

“The usual,” Scipio insisted. “’Hey soldier, want a good time?’ You know the drill…”

“What else did she say?” Manlai demanded, his tone growing more insistent.

“I don’t bloody remember!” The man next to Scipio pulled his foot back again, but then Scipio frowned and said, “No, wait, wait… she did say something…”

“What?” Manlai snarled.

“I’m trying to bloody remember!” Scipio said. He could feel sweat trickling down his back. He was nearly out of time and he knew it. Where are those useless bastards…?

Suddenly there was a loud thump at the front door. The Mongolian’s heads, in unison, turned towards it. The men behind Manlai began to rouse themselves from their bored stupor and reached for the muskets they had leaning against the wall behind them.

About bloody time, Scipio thought. He felt the tension drain out of him, but only for a moment; it returned immediately as he prepared himself.

With a loud crash, the front door burst open and the Mongolian’s eyes opened wide as the huge, imposing figure of Sergeant Necalli stormed through it. Behind him came Silo and Lallena and, strangely, a Mongolian, except he wasn’t a Mongolian; it was Wei, still wearing the local street clothes he’d used so he could surreptitiously follow the men who had captured his commanding officer. All four Roman riflemen had their weapons at the ready, bayonets attached, and all were screaming bloody murder in their different native tongues.

The Mongolians instinctively took a step back. Their attention was fully focused on this new threat, not on the supposedly helpless Roman officer kneeling on the floor in their midst, and Scipio seized on that advantage. For perhaps the first and only time, he was thankful for the poor workmanship that had gone into his standard issue boots, for the right heel had come loose during the battle a few days before, and that allowed him to conceal a knife there—a small knife, granted, its blade no longer than a man’s thumbnail, but a knife nonetheless, and wickedly sharp at that. He’d used it to cut through his bonds, and now Scipio rose to his feet, yielding his meagre weapon.

He took no small amount of delight in using the blade to slice across the throat of the man who’d been kicking him. Scipio felt the familiar warm, wet gush of blood upon his hand and the sleeve of his coat. The burly Mongolian stumbled backwards, his eyes bulging as his hands went to his slashed throat. Scipio kept turning, following his leading right hand which still held the knife. He twisted his wrist and thrust the little knife into the right eye of man who’d been standing to his left. The man screamed, loud and high, and Scipio left the knife where it was.

Scipio then took two steps and launched himself at Larentia and the man who was holding her. He struck them both and they tumbled to the ground in a tangle of flailing limbs. The man tried to fight back against Scipio, but was hindered by Larentia, who had tapped into some reserve of strength, at least enough to grab the man’s genitals with one hand and squeeze them viciously. The man gasped loudly, and then Scipio pushed himself up on one arm began to punch him in the face repeatedly.

Even in the midst of this, Scipio has careful to keep his head down, because by taking himself, Larentia, and the other man to the floor, he’d cleared his Riflemen’s line of fire. The two Mongolians with Muskets had brought their weapons to bear; at this range they could barely miss, but they never got the chance. Silo and Lallena fired their rifles, and each ball struck home into a man’s chest.

Manlai, however, had cannily launched himself through the rear door as soon as the Riflemen had burst into the room. Nacalli fired a shot, but the ball hissed just above the ducking crime lord, who was shouting urgent commands in Mongolian. Already, Scipio could hear voices shouting in alarm and anger throughout the old house. The man beneath Scipio was now senseless; the Roman officer stopped beating him and rose to his feet. He reached down and gingerly helped Larentia stand up.

“You can let go of his balls, love,” Scipio said to her. “I don’t think he can feel it anymore.”

“Bastard,” Larentia said to the unconscious man, and spat on his face for emphasis.

She turned her attention to Scipio. He could see she was still unsteady and a little glassy-eyed, but she was exhibiting more strength than she had when she’d been brought into the room. Scipio could well imagine what sort of torture she had endured, but she still had some strength left, and the soldier in him admired that.

“I can’t believe the General ordered a rescue,” she muttered, her voice low and rough with fatigue.

“Eh, he didn’t, not exactly. We came of our own accord,” Scipio admitted.

Her slender brows rose in surprise, then she frowned and snorted in derision. “Idiot,” she said.

“I”ve been called worse,” Scipio said, then began to lead her towards the door. The shouting in the old house was growing louder, and getting closer. “Let’s get out of here…”

But Scipio’s words were cut off by the shouts of a handful of men out in the street, running towards the open door of the house. Some were carrying muskets.

“Bloody hell!” Necalli shouted.

“Reload!” Scipio shouted the order.

Wei, the only Roman still holding a loaded weapon, spun around, took aim, and fired his rifle out the door. A Mongolian took the ball in the chest and crumpled to the cobblestoned street, but a half-dozen other men were charging past him, screaming an angry challenge. Necalli stepped forward in two long strides and threw the door closed, just in time to hear a musket ball thump against it. While Silo, Lallena, and Wei reloaded their rifles, the big Aztec kept leaning against the door, which shuddered as men on the other side threw themselves against it.

“We can’t keep the bastards out forever!” the big Aztec told his commanding officer.

“Damn, damn, damn!” Scipio swore. He’d miscalculated; he hadn’t expected Manlai to have men outside, guarding the street around wherever they wound up taking him, but he should have known better. His self-recrimination, however, was interrupted by the sound of heavy footfalls within the house. To his right, a wooden staircase led upstairs, and he could hear angry voices shouting in Mongolian from above.

Scipio glanced around. There was an old, worn wardrobe against the opposite wall. He thrust Larentia as gently as time allowed into Wei’s arms, then ran towards the cabinet.

“Miguel!” he shouted as he ran. “Help me! Silo, cover the staircase!”

Together, the two riflemen dragged the wardrobe over to the front entrance, where Necalli joined them in bracing it against the door. A Mongolian began to descend the staircase, but Silo fired his rifle and convinced their upstairs adversaries to stay put, at least for the moment.

Scipio looked towards the door through which Manlai had vanished. It was the only way out of the room now.

“Follow me!” he shouted, and ran through the door, shouting an aggressive if foolhardy challenge to whoever was on the other side of it.

Scipio, his men, and Larentia found themselves in a hallway. Scipio looked left and right, trying to decide which way to go, when the option of deciding was taken away from them. From Scipio’s left, more Mongolians suddenly appeared, carrying muskets with bayonets, Manlai bringing up their rear. Scipio heard a shot, flinched, and felt a musket ruffle his hair as it narrowly missed him. He turned and ran down the hall to the right, his small party following him. There was one door at the end of the hallway; he ran towards it, seeking any shelter from the storm brewing behind him.

He reached the door and shoved it open, then stormed through it. He found himself moving into darkness, then he was falling, his boots thumping awkwardly on wooden stairs, his arms windmilling helplessly as he struggled to keep his balance. He fell forward, shouted an exclamation of surprise and alarm, and then he felt his knees and his shoulders painfully striking the stairs, and he tumbled down until he struck the ground at the bottom of the stairway and let out a grunt of pain.

Scipio forced himself to roll forward in case any of his riflemen also lost their footing and fell on top of him, but they had been alerted by his shout and had managed to remain upright. Necalli, bringing up the rear, pushed the door closed and leaned against it. He expected the Mongolians to fire at the door, or to try to force it open, but to his surprise, they did not. Instead, he could hear Manlai shouting at his men, evidently to stop their pursuit, which was sensible, since only two men could have charged through the door at a time, and with the enemy in darkness before them, the stairwell would have become a death trap.

Nevertheless, the Romans’ situation was far worse. Panting, sweating, the sour taste of burnt gunpowder in their mouths, the riflemen were in complete darkness, outnumbered by their enemy, their only protection taking the form of an old wooden door. The lack of light in the basement meant there were no windows, and probably no doors, either—meaning no escape. They were trapped.

[CCRunner]

Princes 15 - Scipio's Spy

Part 7

“It’s black as pitch down here,” Lallena muttered.

“I’ve always admired how observant you Spaniards are,” Necalli responded.

Scipio grunted in the darkness as he pushed himself back to his feet. The knees of his trousers were torn, he could feel, and both knees were wet and sticky with blood from cuts. This wasn’t how he’d planned it, not at all. The riflemen were supposed to have burst in, grabbed him and Larentia, and then burst out again, into the street and back to the garrison. Instead, they’d been cut off and herded into the basement, from which there didn’t seem to be a way out.

“Does anyone have a match?” Scipio called up from the bottom of the stairs.

“Aye, sir,” Silo, the oldest of the riflemen and a man fond of his pipe tobacco, responded. The others heard him rummaging in his coat pockets for a moment, and then they heard the sharp scratching sound of a match being struck against flint. The meagre flame provided their only illumination; the basement appeared dark and gloomy, the tiny flame making shadows flicker ominously against the walls and floor.

“Miguel, Wei—keep your aim trained on that door, in case our friends decide to barge in on us,” Scipio ordered.

Slowly, illuminated by the match flame, the riflemen and the Mongolian woman made their way down the steps, warily watching the door the entire time. When they reached the bottom, the match revealed their immediate surroundings. Silo spotted a small glass oil lamp hanging from the ceiling; just before his match burned to his fingers, he grabbed the lamp and lit its wick. He then shook the match out and was about to toss it away when Scipio gripped his forearm tightly.

“Don’t go tossing that match anywhere down here, Silo,” Scipio murmured, his voice tight with tension.

Silo looked around the basement, as did the others, and they collectively gasped. The room was filled with barrels, each marked with Mongolian symbols that the Romans had quickly come to recognize as they’d invaded the city a few days ago. According to the markings, each barrel was filled with gunpowder. Stacked against the stone walls, they could see row after row of muskets. In one corner of the dark, dingy room were several heavy canvas bags, presumably filled to the brim with musket balls.

“Be careful with that lamp, too, Silo,” Private Li Wei muttered nervously.

“Right,” Silo responded, his voice tight. “Handy safety tip, that.”

Necalli whistled low. “It’s a damned arsenal,” he said.

“Enough to support a full-blown revolt,” Scipio acknowledged. He turned to look at Larentia. “This is what that message was about, wasn’t it?” The spy glanced at him, her eyes wary and suspicious for a moment, but then she nodded. “’Hercules has cleaned the stables, and is rounding up the mares,” Scipio repeated, remembering the message she’d given him. “The lion is slain. The cattle remain free.’” Scipio quoted. “Manlai is Hercules?”

Larentia nodded. “He cleaned out the other weapons caches around the city—the stables—and brought everything here,” she said in a tired voice. “But I didn’t know where ‘here’ was at the time.”

Scipio nodded. “The cattle remain free. Who’s the lion?”

The young Mongolian woman looked down, ashamed to show signs of a wound that was still fresh. “My father,” she admitted. “He was one of Khan’s generals, until…”

“Until what?” Scipio asked gently.

Larentia lifted her head, and her dark eyes stared directly into Scipio’s. “Until a higher-ranking general took a liking to my mother. She couldn’t dishonour herself, so she…”

Her voice choked off her words, and Scipio placed a hand on her shoulder. He’s wondered why this young Mongolian woman had turned against her own government, and now he knew. His men were respectfully silent, their attention riveted to the closed, silent door above them.

Larentia shrugged off Scipio’s reassuring touch. She glanced up at the door. “This is some rescue,” she said derisively. “They’ll be coming for us.”

“I know,” Scipio said. “They don’t want to fire down into a room full of gunpowder…”

“I’m not that comfortable with the idea of firing up out of one,” Lallena muttered.

“…and we can’t survive down here forever,” Scipio said. He looked around. “There has to be another way out.”

“Not necessarily,” Necalli said gloomily.

“Could we dig our way out?” Wei suggested.

The big Aztec sergeant, standing next to him, glanced dubiously at the stone walls and floor, then cast a baleful stare back at the young private.

“I guess not...” Wei muttered.

“We could charge them,” Lallena said gloomily, well aware of how such an effort would end.

“And go out in a blaze of glory, Miguel?” Scipio said with a wry smile.

He stole a glance at Larentia. If it had just been himself and his men, he might have given the idea more than just passing consideration. But they’d come here to rescue a woman, and Scipio would be damned if he was going to give up so easily.

“There has to be another way,” the tall rifleman said.

He ran one hand through his short, sandy hair and began to pace around the kegs of gunpowder. He knew time was running out. Upstairs, Manlai would be plotting a way to come down and kill them all. It wouldn’t be hard. The first few Mongolians would die, but after that, his small group would be overwhelmed by numbers. Or maybe they’d just keep them bottled up down here and let them starve. Either way, the situation seemed hopeless.

Scipio took a deep breath and sighed. The sour scent of gunpowder filled his nostrils; that was the other smell he’d detected upstairs just a few moments before, he realized. Then he frowned. The sour reek in the air, he suddenly realized, wasn’t just from gunpowder.

“Sir, what are we going to...” Wei said.

“Quiet,” Scipio said suddenly, holding up one hand. He took one step to his right, then another, and sniffed the air like a hound following a scent.

“Sir, what’s…” Necalli began to ask him, but Scipio shook his head and kept his hand raised. He took another step towards the center of the basement. He then noticed that the floor was slanted slightly towards the center, and smiled. He reached down and carefully pushed a barrel out of the way. His eyes began to water and he waved his hand in front of his face, but his smile had broadened to a grin.

“Buddha wept!” Lallena exclaimed, his face folding up as an atrocious odour filled the air. “What is that smell?” he asked as he covered his face with one hand.

“It’s our way out,” Scipio said proudly.

Dubiously, Larentia and the riflemen walked over towards the spot where Scipio was standing; Silo carried the lantern, careful not to let its flame anywhere near any gunpowder keg. There was an iron grate in the floor, they could see once they stood by the Roman officer, and the stench emanating from it reeked of human waste.

“A sewer,” Lallena said joylessly.

Scipio nodded. “We pull the grate off, and we can wade through it and get out of here.”

“Wade through…?” Wei said dubiously.

“Don’t tell me you joined the Roman army for the glamour and adventure,” Scipio chided his youngest man with a grin.

“No, I joined for the gourmet cuisine,” Wei muttered.

“You know, sir,” Necalli said, “I always knew that if I stuck by you long enough, I’d wind up knee-deep in…”

“Shut up, you big Aztec bastard,” Scipio replied. “Help me with this powder keg over here,” he said, marching back towards a barrel near the bottom of the stairs.

“What are we going to do with it?” Necalli asked, but the smile on his face indicated he had some idea of what his commanding officer intended.

“Like good house guests,” Scipio muttered as he pulled a cork plug out of a hole in the top of the barrel, “we’re going to leave our hosts a parting gift.”

***

“Ready?” Manlai said to his men. It wasn’t a question, not really; it was his way of saying that he expected them to be ready, and they knew it.

They were nervous, of course, for though they outnumbered the small band of Roman riflemen in the basement, they would be leading a blind charge into the dark. Only two men at a time could advance abreast through the doorway and down the staircase, and if the Romans decided to risk firing their weapons while surrounded by all that gunpowder, then the first few men would die. The Mongolians would not, could not fire back; Manlai had ensured that their muskets were unloaded. Just one ball striking a powder keg the wrong way could set off a conflagration. Sparks from the pans of the Romans’ rifles were also risky, but less so than direct fire. So the Romans would hold a slight advantage—at first. But once their weapons were empty, the Mongolians would have the advantage of numbers.

And if the Romans did not fire, then it would be a battle of bayonet against bayonet, and the Mongolians had the advantage of higher ground. Either way, the Romans would all die, and Manlai would have his prisoner back. He relished the thought; there were still a few choice indignities he wished to inflict upon the young woman’s body.

“For the fatherland!” one of the men at the front said. He was young, fierce and proud and idealistic as young men often are, and he knew he was about to die, as young men of his mindset often do.

Manlai shrugged inwardly. It was the way of the world. He was not a patriot and bore no great love for the Great Immortal Khan, but he liked things the way they had been before the Romans showed up, so he would fight to kill the Romans and restore his city to Mongolian control. Maybe the Great Khan would make him a general. The thought was amusing. Whatever happened, Manlai knew he would emerge from this conflict even more powerful than he had been before. So maybe the Roman invasion wasn’t such a bad thing after all. Not that it would stop him from killing as many of the bastards as he could.

“GO!” Manlai shouted, and the young patriot thrust his booted foot against the door. It swung open, and the young man charged, screaming, down the stairwell, his bayonet leading the way, his companions following close on his heels. Manlai hung back at the top of the stairs. He heard no rifle fire from below, and that was a relief. But then he realized that he also did not hear the sound of a fight; there were no sounds of bayonet blades clashing and scraping against one another, no shouts and cries as men died. The shouts of his men had died out.

The Mongolian crime lord pushed his way through the men at the top of the stairs, then down the stairs into the basement. A single lamp was lit and hung from a hook in the ceiling. The young patriot was standing in the centre of the basement, and was beckoning to him.

“They escaped into the sewers,” the young man said, his nose wrinkling as he pointed to the open sewer grate.

“Hrmph,” Manlai grunted. “Like the rats they are. How appropriate.” He stared at the hole in the floor for a moment, considering, then looked around at his men. “Very well. We’ll need to move the weapons cache, now that they know where it is. Beckter, round up all the men and…”

“Great Vishnu!”

Manlai’s attention, indeed the attention of all the men in the basement, was drawn to the man who had exclaimed to their Hindu god and was now running towards a barrel that was positioned to one side of the wooden staircase. In the dimly-lit basement, Manlai could clearly see the sparking flame of a burning fuse, a fuse that the damned Romans had cleverly concealed from their view behind the powderkeg itself. Even now, as his man ran desperately towards the barrel, Manlai could see he would be too late. With his final breath, the Mongolian crime lord uttered a vicious, ugly curse on the Romans and all things Roman.




For generations thereafter, Mycenians would talk about the great explosion. They would talk about how it levelled an entire block in the city’s old, nearly abandoned warehouse district. Those who were nearby would remember that there was first a loud, yet muffled sound, like a large cannon firing. That was then followed by an ear-shattering roar that left ears ringing throughout the city for days afterwards. A huge red and black fireball rose into the sky, trailing flaming debris that rained down upon the surrounding blocks.

The fiery detritus of the explosion threatened to spread the destruction even further as it fell upon the surrounding buildings and homes. As fires started and began to spread, many Mycenians began to flee, convinced their city was doomed.

But as it happened, the city did not die that day. The saviours of Mycenian, to its citizens’ everlasting astonishment, were the very people who had invaded and conquered it only days before. The Roman general, Gaius Rutullus Lepidus, began giving orders only moments after the explosion occurred. The Roman army was pressed into service to fight not a human enemy, but a fiery one. They formed bucket brigades, they hauled stone and brick rubble to form fire stops, and they evacuated the citizens from the most threatened areas. As a result, the destruction and loss of life was much reduced from what it could have been. Afterwards, while the Mongolians of Mycenian could not exactly bring themselves to like their Roman conquerors, they at least agreed that perhaps they weren’t quite the demons they had been made out to be.

Theories as to the cause of the blast abounded and rumours ran rampant. The most widely-accepted explanation was that a local cache of gunpowder and weapons, intended to be used in an uprising against the Romans, had been accidentally detonated. However, since this was also the official explanation of the newly-installed Roman authorities, alternative theories were prevalent. Some said that the Romans had been testing a new super-weapon on the Mongolian populace; others said it was the work of Greek or English terrorists, taking advantage of the chaos created by the invasion. Still others said it was an act of God.

Among all the talk of the event itself and the theories about it, smaller, stranger stories also circulated. One apocryphal story concerned the fate of a stray cat, locally famous in the neighbourhood where the explosion occurred, which had allegedly been blasted several hundred feet in the air, but survived by landing on its feet with no injury worse than some singed fur. Another story told of a man, a widower, who had been blown out of his dwelling by the explosion, only to be thrown through the window and safely on to the bed of a widow who lived across the street. They were, the story went, married a month later.

Perhaps the strangest story concerned a motley group of Roman soldiers who had been in the blast area, but had survived by crawling through the city’s sewers. They had emerged, the story said, malodorous but alive, where the sewer’s drain pipe emptied into the bay. Some versions of the story even claimed that they’d had a woman with them.

All sensible people, of course, dismissed such fanciful tales as utter nonsense.

[CCRunner]

Princes 15 - Scipio's Spy

Part 8 (Conclusion)




“Remind me again,” General Gaius Rutullus Lepidus said in a gruff undertone, “why I’m not having this man court martialed, flogged, and hung? And not necessarily in that order?”

Beside him, Major Scaurus shrugged and idly stroked one of his drooping moustaches with one finger.

“Less paperwork, sir,” the Major said quietly, “and fewer, ah, inconvenient questions raised back home.”

“He disobeyed an order,” Lepidus growled.

“Strictly speaking, sir, and begging your pardon, he didn’t,” Scaurus responded, causing his General to suddenly turn and bestow a baleful glare upon him. Scaurus didn’t even flinch; he was used to the General’s moods. “You never expressly forbade him from attempting a rescue. I was there, if you recall. Sir.”

Lepidus saw the corners of the Major’s lips twitch upwards, just for a moment. “And you would have testified as much at his trial, I suppose,” he said acidly.

“I’d be honour-bound, as an officer and a gentleman, to tell the truth, sir!” Major Scaurus said with no small amount of feigned innocence.

He didn’t say, of course, that he was quite capable of lying convincingly when it suited his or the General’s purposes, and had done so too many times in the past to keep count. He didn’t have to. Nor did he have to say the unspoken message he was sending his General: This man may be useful; let’s keep him around, shall we?

General Lepidus made a noise that sounded like a resigned grunt, then gave a curt nod. “Let’s get this damned nonsense over with, then,” he said.

Major Scaurus nodded to a tall Sergeant-Major standing nearby; the man nodded back and looked out across the Roman troops who were assembled and standing at parade rest on the makeshift assembly field just outside of Mycenian’s city walls. A few hundred yards away to the north, the breach in those walls that the Roman’s cannon had opened was plainly visible. Rubble still littered the glacis at the base of the wall, but the dead bodies and body parts of Mongolians and Romans alike had been removed. Blood stains were still visible on the stone and the trampled ground, but a rain last night had shown that those would eventually be washed away. The memories would take longer to fade.

“Ten-SHUN!” the Sergeant-Major shouted, and the distinct sound of several hundred men moving their feet in unison echoed off of the high stone wall.

Major Scaurus then turned his head slightly and nodded at the tall, sandy-haired rifleman standing at attention a few feet in front of himself and the General. Scipio looked quite splendid, as he well should, Scaurus thought, since he and his other adventurers had all been issued new uniforms. The old ones… Scaurus couldn’t help shuddering at the thought. He’d made the mistake of ordering Scipio and his men report to the General as soon as they reappeared. Some unlucky privates, who’d been caught sleeping while on picket duty, were, at this very moment, scrubbing away at the hardwood floor in the General’s office to try to remove the stench.

Scipio marched forward and came to stand at attention directly in front of the General. He respectfully did not make eye contact, instead staring at an indiscriminate stone in the city wall behind and above Lepidus’ head.

“Lieutenant Marcus Scipio,” General Lepidus said, not bothering to disguise his distaste, “for outstanding gallantry and… initiative in enemy territory, and for inflicting debilitating wounds upon the enemy, the Senate and the People of Rome hereby award you the hasta pura.”

The hasta pura had, in ancient times, taken the form of a ceremonial spear, made out of silver. Now it took the form of a small silver shield, a stylized version of the rectangular convex ones that the Legions used to carry, with two crossed spears in front of it, hanging from a purple and gold ribbon—a medal to be worn on the chest of its recipient’s dress uniform.

“You still reek of the sewer, Scipio,” Lepidus muttered pointedly as he pinned the medal upon Scipio’s uniform, directly above his heart.

“That’s the gutter, sir,” Scipio replied. “I was born there. No amount of washing will get rid of it.”

General Lepidus glanced at Scipio’s impassive face, then made a noise that Scipio generously supposed was an amused grunt. The commander of Rome’s army in Mongolia then took a step back and saluted; a heartbeat later, as custom dictated, Scipio followed suit. Normally the lower-ranking man saluted first, but Roman tradition held that the recipient of a military decoration received, just this once, the additional honour of having his commanding officer salute him first.

“Dismissed,” the General said, and the order was passed along.

A few moments later, most of the soldiers were heading back to their barracks or assigned posts. Many paused to give Scipio their congratulations, though not without the odd pointed remark about how he’d won his decoration; the story of his escape through the sewers was becoming legendary, and as a result, the usual scatological humour of soldiers everywhere was on full display.

“First they made you an officer, now they’re pinning medals on your chest—and for what? Crawling through a sewer! What is this army coming to, sir?” Sergeant Necalli remarked as he walked alongside Scipio, heading back into Mycenian and their billet.

“Damned if I know,” Scipio said with a shrug. “I could have sworn the lot of us were going to be up on charges.”

They were heading back to pack their kits; word had come down, they were on the march tomorrow. Officially, it was a secret, but one of the worst-kept ones in the history of the Roman army. The Mongolian city of New Serai was already being bombarded by Roman frigates. The army would march the few hundred miles that separated the city from Mycenian and tear the place open like a rotten piece of fruit.




“There are two things in this world that will drive a man insane if he attempts to figure out their logic: the army, and women,” Necalli said. He stopped walking to look to his right, over Scipio’s shoulder. “Speaking of the latter…”

Scipio glanced curiously at his Sergeant, then turned to follow his gaze. There, standing just inside the city gate, was Larentia. She looked much improved, Scipio was pleased to note, from when he’d seen her last. Her black eye was healing, as was her split lip. Her raven-black hair was cleaned and combed, framing her face. She wore a long blue woollen dress, belted at the waist, with a white shirt beneath it, a plain, traditional Mongolian ensemble that nevertheless looked good on her slender frame.

“I’ll…” Scipio began to say.

“Catch up with me at our billet?” Necalli said with a knowing grin. The big Aztec gave his commanding officer a friendly pat on the back and marched off.

“Hello, Larentia,” Scipio said as he approached her. Roman soldiers and Mongolians continued to walk past them, out of and in through the city gate.

She shook her head. “My name is Nara,” she told him. “Larentia is a Greek name. Part of the code,” she said with a shrug.

“Nara,” Scipio said. “It’s pretty,” he told her, speaking softly so only she could hear.

“I didn’t thank you properly,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “For rescuing me.”

Scipio shrugged and then grinned. “It wasn’t much of a rescue,” he said. “You said so yourself.”

Nara’s grin reflected his own. “True. But here I am. So, thank you.”

Scipio nodded. “It was my pleasure, lass.”

Nara frowned then, and regarded him intently. “I also wanted to ask you… why? You risked so much. Why did you do it?”

Scipio returned her gaze and his mind whirled with thoughts and memories. He thought of his mother, struggling to raise him without a husband to help, taking any odd job she could while trying to instil some sense of right and wrong in the young hellion who was her only child. He thought of the first neighbourhood girl he’d loved, a small, frail creature who’d taken her own life rather than continue to suffer the perverse attentions forced upon her by her own father.

And he remembered the girl who had worked at the tavern, a place so small and dingy it didn’t even rate a name, but she’d made the place worth visiting, with her hair that was gold like summer barley and her eyes as blue as cornflowers. She worked there because she’d married the tavern’s owner, a surly man who’d inherited the tavern from his father but thought he deserved better in life. He took his frustrations out on her; every time Scipio came in, she was sporting a new bruise somewhere. So he’d confronted the man, who’d told him to mind his own business, and things went downhill from there. It all ended with a knife being drawn and a man dead and the girl with the gold hair and the blue eyes screaming because even if he’d been a brutal thug, the dead man had been her husband.

The magistrate had given Scipio a choice: hang or sign up with the army, to fight and probably die for Rome half a world away. Scipio had decided to take his chances with the Mongolians rather than the hangman.

He thought about all these things, but he did not speak of them, because he never did. Life in the stews of Rome had taught him that one lesson better than all the others: never, ever show vulnerability. Not to anyone.

So instead, he shrugged again, and simply said, “I don’t know.” He shook his head. Nara was still watching him expectantly. Scipio sighed. “I don’t… I don’t like to see women suffer, is all. Life’s hard enough, isn’t it?”

Nara watched him silently a moment longer, then nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, it is.”

An awkward but nevertheless enjoyable silence settled over them, just for a moment.

“I’m leaving tonight,” Nara said abruptly, then said nothing more.

“Where are you going?” Scipio asked when she did not elaborate.

A pitying smile appeared on Nara’s lips. “You know I can’t tell you that,” she said.

Scipio’s jaw clenched, and his lips pressed together into a grim line. Her answer spoke volumes. So she was heading off, deeper into Mongolia and into danger, spying for Rome again. They were at war, after all, and that took precedence over everything.

“Right, so this is goodbye, then,” Scipio said evenly. “Take care of yourself, will you, lass?”

“You too,” Nara said.

Scipio favoured her with a grim smile and a curt nod. He turned to go, but then stopped when he felt her hand upon his arm.

“Scipio,” she said.

“Marcus,” he corrected her.

She nodded. “You’re a good man, Marcus,” she told him, then went up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. It was the first time Scipio had seen her do anything that resembled a girlish gesture, and it shocked him to silence. “Promise me something?” she said.

“Anything,” Scipio replied, and he meant it.

“When this is all over,” Nara said, “come and find me, will you?”

Scipio smiled. “I just might do that,” he said. “If I’m still alive,” he added with a soldier’s typically dismissive fatalism.

“You will be,” Nara told him with a smile. “You’re a survivor.”

“Am I now?” Scipio said, still smiling.

“It takes one to know one,” Nara said. She was grinning at him, and despite her cut lip and her swollen right eye, Scipio thought he’d never seen a more beautiful woman in his life.

She reached out and caressed his arm by lightly running her fingertips down his sleeve, then she squeezed his hand for the briefest of moments, far too brief for Scipio’s liking, but he’d resigned himself, long ago, to taking what he could get. Then she released his hand and turned away. Without a look back, she walked off into the crowd. He watched her go until she vanished into the multitude, then watched where he’d last seen her a moment longer. And he promised himself that he would survive, and that he would find her again, one day when her homeland was at peace, even if was an enforced peace beneath a Roman flag. It would not happen for some time, and he had a long way to march and many battles to fight before then, but he made himself the promise nonetheless. Because he’d rescued her, he’d given her life back to her, and she was his.

She was Scipio’s spy.

[CCRunner]

Chapter 16 – Scipio's Sabre

Marcus Scipio and the Battle of New Serai, 1770 AD

Part 1

The heavy rain pelted down on the marching Roman column like a subtle form of artillery, whose intent was not to maim and kill but to sicken and demoralize. It drummed upon the tops of their shakos, dripped down their necks, ran down their backs, and had by now soaked them to the skin. The deluge did nothing to help the mood of the men, whose spirits were already low.

By rights, the Roman army should have been elated. They had now captured two Mongolian cities, Mycenian and Ning-Hsia, and were marching on a third, some place called New Serai. Taking it would cut off the Mongolians from the Mycenian peninsula and would completely secure the Roman beachhead in this land, ensuring the Romans of relatively easy and secure resupply and reinforcement from their home continent.

News from elsewhere, however, had significantly dampened their spirits. Rather than rushing home to defend Mongolia’s main territory, as everyone had expected him to do, Genghis Khan had instead continued pushing his forces against England, Rome’s ally. He’d travelling unimpeded through supposedly-neutral Greece, and just after the Roman triumph at Ning-Hsia, word had come from the north that Khan’s forces had captured the English capital, London itself. Queen Elizabeth had barely escaped—the sole consolation from the debacle.



The dispiriting news had turned the taste of victory to ashes in the Romans’ mouths. The whole point of the Mongolian campaign had been to relieve pressure on Rome’s traditional ally, England. It obviously wasn’t working, which was shocking. How could Khan simply ignore the loss of two of his cities, and the approaching loss of a third? What was he thinking and planning? Was he simply stubborn, or did he have something more up his sleeve? The unanswered question which bothered the troops most of all was nearly unthinkable: could it be that Genghis Khan was a better strategist than the immortal Caesar?

None of these doubts helped boost the morale of the Roman troops as they marched towards New Serai. Nor did the weather. Nor did the state of their footwear.

“Bloody hell!” Lieutenant Marcus Scipio cursed as he paused to shake another stone out of his boot.

The front part of the sole had separated from the boot a few days prior; that and the holes worn in them ensured that Scipio’s feet were soaked with cold rainwater and mud, and that every few paces a small stone could find its way inside his footwear to torment his aching feet even more. The boots of the rest of his Legion, the 14th, weren’t in much better shape.

“We would have to do all of this bloody marching during Mongolia’s rainy season, wouldn’t we, sir?” Sergeant Necalli muttered from beside him. The hulking Aztec rifleman was stumbling through the mud like his officer, his feet similarly soaked and sore.

“The bloody supply ship was supposed to be here weeks ago!” Scipio snarled.

“Word is there was a storm off the coast of Antium…” Necalli replied.

“Bollocks!” Scipio growled his opinion of that official excuse. “Stupid bloody useless navy pansies won’t leave port if there’s so much as a stiff breeze to lift their skirts.”

Despite their discomfort, Necalli smiled. There was something about seeing his commanding officer in a foul mood that inexplicably cheered him up. Maybe it was some small form of revenge for Rome having conquered the Aztec empire centuries before.

“If you say so, sir,” was all he said, and managed to make the grin disappear from his face before Scipio turned to glare at him. Necalli’s gaze wandered upwards, towards the top of the hill on the right hand side of the road. “Think the rain’s bothering the Mongos as much as us, sir?” he said, nodding with his head.

Scipio turned to look where Necalli was indicating. He could barely see anything through the rain, but the Aztec had sharp eyes. Scipio blinked some water out of his eyes, then squinted. Yes, there, at the top of the hill, he could just see them—a group of men on horseback. Cavalry, about a dozen of them. Though they were little more than silhouettes, Scipio knew they were the enemy; Roman troops wouldn’t be watching their own column from a distance with such interest.

“Scouts?” Necalli said.

“Let’s hope that’s all they are,” Scipio replied.

Despite how rain-soaked they were, the hairs on the back of Scipio’s neck were standing up. It was hard to count the shadowy figures through the heavy rain, to tell if the group of Mongolian cavalry were merely a small force or a harbinger of something much larger. They’d be insane to attack the entire Roman column. But they had the rain for cover, the Roman army was on the move and out of its usual protective fortifications, and if they knew how low the troops’ spirits were…

In a heartbeat, Scipio was on the move, running. Through the rain, a few paces ahead of him, thankfully conspicuous because he was on horseback, rode Colonel Gracchus, commander of the 14th Legion.

“Sir! Sir!” Scipio called out as he approached his commanding officer.

Gracchus looked down at Scipio with no small measure of distaste. He came from a long line of Roman patricians, and found the idea of a plebeian like Scipio—let alone one so obviously low-born—holding an officer’s rank to be anathema. Scipio was used to the attitude and did his best to ignore it—most of the time. At the moment, he had no time or concern for the Colonel’s elitist sensibilities.

“Mongolian Cavalry, sir!” Scipio said, pointing up the hill.

Colonel Gracchus squinted up through the rain as Scipio had done only a moment before.

“Cavalry? Hardly, Scipio,” Gracchus said dismissively. “Looks like no more than a motley group of scouts. Or a few of the locals out for a ride.”

“In this weather, sir?” Scipio asked pointedly.

Gracchus glared down at the junior officer, his dark eyes glaring beneath heavy black brows that were just beginning to be grizzled with silver.

“Scouts, then,” he said sharply, then waved his hand and turned away.

Scipio ground his teeth and looked back up the hill, squinting through the driving rain. “There’s more of them than there were a moment ago, sir,” he said.

“What if there are, Scipio?” Gracchus replied impatiently, turning in his saddle to glare at his subordinate.

“There’s a lot more of them,” Necalli, silent and unnoticed until now, despite his size, said ominously from beside Scipio.
Scipio and Gracchus both looked up at the top of the hill, and both quietly gasped. Even through the heavy rain, they could now see the silhouettes of at least a hundred horsemen there, where before only a dozen or so silhouettes had been visible.

“Lieutenant...” Colonel Gracchus managed to choke out, but Scipio was already in motion.

“FORM SQUARE!” Scipio shouted, Sergeant Necalli on his heels, as he ran back towards the riflemen of the 14th, who were still marching in column. “FORM SQUARE, YOU BASTARDS!”

The riflemen were in a tired, dazed stupor from the long march and the rain, but the order was second nature to them. After the briefest of confused hesitations, they began a quick but orderly move into several adjacent defensive formations.

At that very moment, the Roman riflemen heard a shout from above and to their right, then a sound like thunder as the cavalry began their charge downhill. The hundred horsemen in front began to rapidly descend the hill, a hundred more behind them, and a hundred more after that. Their steeds were charging at a gallop almost as soon as they began their descent down the slope.

Fortunately, it wasn’t the first time the Roman infantry had faced off against cavalry, and they knew exactly how to do it. Each square was two ranks deep on each side, the front rank kneeling, the rear rank standing. The faced outwards; each man quickly attached his two-foot long, wickedly sharp bayonet to the end of his rifle and pointed it outwards at a raised angle, the butt of the rifle braced against the ground. It didn’t matter that cavalry horses were highly trained beasts of war; they were still animals with an innate sense of self-preservation, and would not charge into such an array of deadly sharp spikes.

Provided, of course, the horses could stop themselves in time. And could actually see the bayonets.

A cold, ugly feeling stirred in Scipio’s belly as he watched the Mongolian cavalry rushing down the hill towards him. Even though they were only a few dozen yards away, the heavy rain prevented him from seeing much more than huge, dark shadows in motion, the pull of gravity speeding their charge and making them look onstoppable. Despite the torrential downpour, Scipio’s throat suddenly felt dry.

“RIFLES!” he shouted. “PREPARE TO FIRE!”

Again, the Romans hesitated for the briefest of moments, but only for a moment. It was unusual to fire out of a square, but an order was an order, especially from their hard-featured lieutenant. The men in the two ranks facing the hill raised their weapons to their shoulders and took aim at the charging horses.

“FIRST RANK! FIRE!” Scipio yelled.

The loud, sharp crackle of rifle fire rang out in the rain, almost instantly followed by the horrific sounds of screaming horses and men. Mongolian horses fell, tumbling down the hillside, taking their riders with them, tripping other horses behind them. Some of the more skilled riders managed to jump their mounts over the new obstacles.

Without even pausing to think about it, the first rank began to reload, popping the spent cartridge from their weapons’ breaches, pulling another from their belts and sliding it home. They did so without even flinching as the second rank, on Scipio’s shouted order, fired over their heads. More horses and riders fell.

“It won’t stop them, sir!” Sergeant Necalli shouted.

Scipio knew it was true. The cavalry were relentlessly continuing their charge, only a few yards away now, so he could see them clearly through the rain; he could smell the wet loam being raised by their pounding hooves, he could see the foam forming at the corners of the horses’ mouths. The Romans lowered the butts of their rifles again, expecting the horses to shear away at the last moment like they always did.

But they did not. Blinded by the rain, unable to stop because of their downward momentum, the horses continued their charge straight towards the sides of the squares facing the hill. Only at the last moment did the horses see the forest of spikes in front of them; only then did they scream in fear and try to stop, but it was too late. They were practically on top of the hapless riflemen, who screamed and threw themselves to the wet ground as the huge, suddenly panicked horses lunged over them.

Scipio, standing behind the two hillside ranks, watched in horror as they horses crashed through the Roman line. Less than a heartbeat later, he instinctively threw himself aside as one horse charged towards him, the whites of its eyes visible in its sudden terror. The huge, heavy flank of the animal struck his shoulder, sending him spinning; Scipio narrowly avoided having his legs trampled beneath the beast’s rear hooves. Fortunately, the horse’s rider was preoccupied trying to control his panicked mount, otherwise Scipio might have been mercilessly chopped down by a cavalry sabre.

When Scipio managed to shakily push himself up from the cold, wet earth where he’d fallen, the scene around him had already descended into chaos. One side of each Roman infantry square was shattered. The first few horses had trampled the ranks of riflemen beneath their hooves, but had received mortal wounds from the raised bayonets in the process; the animals had gone mad in their pain and death throes and were thrashing about wildly, doing as much damage to their own riders and neighbouring beasts as they were to the few Romans who were still standing. Behind them, uninjured horses were riding into the middle of the square, their riders still in control and looking down from their saddles for enemy to kill.

Scipio cursed, then pushed himself to his feet. He could run, but he knew he’d only be cut down from behind by a Mongolian cavalryman. There was nothing for it but to join the carnage.

“RIFLES!” he shouted over the din of battle and the pounding rain. “TO ME! TO ME!”

Some of the men in the remaining three sides of the square, turning to see the formation hopelessly broken, obeyed their first instinct, which was to run. Many more, however, either heard Scipio’s order or heeded their own anger and launched themselves towards the invading cavalry.

Scipio looked about quickly and spotted a rider sporting epaulettes and sash. An officer; even now, the man was waving his sword and shouting orders to his men. He remembered that he’d loaded but had not fired his weapon. He raised the rifle to his shoulder, took aim, and pulled the trigger, then watched with satisfaction as the Mongolian officer fell from his horse, his brownish-grey deal suddenly sprouting a dark blossom of blood.

“KILL THEM!” Scipio shouted as he threw the leather strap of his rifle over his shoulder so the weapon hung over his back. He drew his sword and screamed incoherently as he ran forward. Other riflemen ran alongside him, shouting as well.

Private Lallena, the Spaniard, ran by him and plunged the blade of his bayonet into the side of a horse. The animal screamed in pain and reared up just as Lallena yanked the blade free. He ducked out from under the animal’s slashing hooves, then jabbed his bayonet upwards again, this time into the gut of the horse’s rider, who yelled and fell from the saddle.

Sergeant Necalli, a few yards to Scipio’s right, waited, poised on the balls of his feet as one cavalryman charged towards him. The huge Aztec deftly side-stepped the horse at the last moment, lashing out and striking the animal on its sensitive nose with a large, heavy fist as it passed by him. The beast screamed in pain, and Necalli took advantage of the rider’s loss of control to reach up and yank the man out of the saddle. He struck the Mongolian once, then stamped upon his face with his boot and turned to face his next challenge.

Rifles still crackled around Scipio. A few paces behind him, Corporal Ancus Silo was hunkered down on one knee, the old poacher calmly loading cartridge after cartridge into his weapon, taking careful aim, and dispatching horses and riders with deadly ease.

Despite their valiant efforts, however, the Roman infantry were being overwhelmed. Their square was broken, and the Mongolian cavalry were wading through them, the heavy beasts knocking the puny men aside while their riders used carbines and swords to finish them off.

Scipio was suddenly jostled and turned to see Private Li standing beside him, his usually-narrow eyes opened wide, unblinking. The young Chinese private stared at the carnage around him in barely-controlled terror; but he hadn’t run, Scipio briefly reflected. Li had held his own in a handful of battles now, and this one would be no different.

“Come on, Wei!” he said to the young private, flashing a feral grin at him. “Let’s you and me kill some of these Mongo bastards!” Li nodded, drawing encouragement from his commanding officer’s bravery and savagery.

Together, they rose and charged the nearest horse; the rider and his mount, confused by the two targets presented to them, each took a moment too long to decide which one to attack first. Scipio suffered from no such moment of indecision. He slashed the blade of his sword at the horse’s mouth, sending the animal rearing back out of control; he picked his moment carefully, ducked beneath the slashing hooves, and plunged his bayonet into the rider’s ribs. With a groan, the Mongolian fell to the ground, the horse reared and ran away, and Scipio gave Li an encouraging smile and nod, grateful for the distraction the young private had provided.

Yet even as Scipio watched the horse he and Li had attacked run off, he heard more hoof beats behind him, approaching rapidly. Scipio didn’t even pause to think, he just reacted, judging the approach of the horse from the sound. He threw himself to one side and felt his tall shako torn from his head as a heavy cavalry sabre struck it, barely missing striking his skull. Wet mud sprayed by the animal’s huge, heavy hooves soaked his uniform, informing him just how closely death had just passed him by.

He quickly pushed himself up from the mud, his sword held ready as the Mongolian quickly turned his mount. Scipio’s new opponent was a tall, sturdily-built man wearing the silver epaulettes of a Mongolian colonel and a black patch over one eye. That one eye was as black as midnight, as was the formidable war horse the man rode. His lips were curled into a contemptuous sneer as he eyed the Roman infantryman standing before him. He spurred his horse forward, renewing his attack.

Scipio waited as long as he dared, then lashed out with his sword, not at the rider, but once again at the sensitive mouth of his mount. The rider anticipated this tactic, however, and yanked on the reins to not only pull his horse’s head away from the attack, but to present his sword arm towards his opponent.

Scipio could see the long, heavy blade drawn back, then slashing down towards him. In an almost surreal moment of utter clarity, he could see rivulets of rain water flying from the blade as it descended. He shifted his own sword to parry the blow.

The impact of the sword hitting his own seemed to reverberate right through him, rattling his teeth and shooting white-hot pain through his arm. His own sword—a cheap weapon that he’d barely been able to afford once he’d earned his commission—shattered noisily. One large portion of the blade was flung over his head, while smaller shards of metal struck his uniform and cut his face and the back of his sword hand. The force of the blow threw Scipio backwards, the mud barely cushioning the blow. His rifle, slung across his back, cracked as its long barrel broke away from the stock. Instinctively, Scipio rolled away from the horse’s slashing hooves, his right arm useless, his eyes glancing about him for a weapon, any weapon at all, knowing that death was only seconds away.

Suddenly, the great black war horse reared up and screamed in pain. Scipio saw the Mongolian pull harshly on the reins, struggling for control even as he turned to search for the source of the attack on his mount. Through the animal’s powerful legs, Scipio could see the breeches of a Roman rifleman. The beast moved aside and Private Li was revealed, the blade of his bayonet dripping with the animal’s blood.

But Li had only cut the animal, and not deeply; the Mongolian quickly brought the horse back under his control and turned to face this new threat. Li stood his ground, his eyes open wide, as he looked desperately for another opening.

“Wei!” Scipio shouted weakly, knowing all too well the peril the young rifleman was now facing, “get out of there!”

Either Li didn’t hear him or was unwilling to abandon his commanding officer when he was in distress. He scuttled backwards, but kept thrusting his bayonet towards the Mongolian and his mount, attempting to keep them at bay, and apparently succeeding. But from his prone position, Scipio could see the man was toying with Li, awaiting the perfect moment to strike.

“SILO!” Scipio shouted to the Legion’s best marksman as he pushed himself up with his one good arm. “SILO!” he shouted again and turned to see that he’d caught the attention of the former poacher. “Kill that one-eyed bastard! HURRY!” Scipio yelled.

Silo sized up the situation in an instant as he saw the danger the young private was in. He quickly loaded his weapon and brought the rifle to his shoulder, one eye closed as he took aim. He squeezed the trigger.

At that very moment, the Mongolian colonel attacked. He and his horse moved as one, their wordless communication forged by years of training and practice. Horse and rider lunged forward, the tip of horseman’s heavy cavalry sword deftly slipping by Li’s bayonet. Silo’s bullet, aimed so perfectly only a split second before, now flew harmlessly over the head of the lunging Mongolian. The tip of the man’s sword pierced Li’s throat, then emerged with a bloody explosion from the back of his neck. Just as quickly as he’d thrust it forward, the Mongolian twisted his blade and withdrew it.

“NO!” Scipio shouted, running towards Li even though he now had now weapon and risked dying as well.

Li’s knees buckled and he dropped to the muddy ground, blood coursing from the wound in his neck, soaking the front of his dark blue uniform, staining it purple. His hands went limp and his rifle fell from his hands. He crumpled like a wad of paper thrown into a fire, and fell over onto his side.

The Mongolian turned to face Scipio again, his bloodied sword ready to finish him off. Just then, however, the Mongolians’ horses whinnied nervously, and the horsemen glanced nervously around them. Scipio felt the ground begin to shake beneath his feet. At that moment, the rain suddenly petered out, and in the sudden silence, the distant sound of trumpets, shouting men, and galloping horses could be heard.

The Mongolians had attacked only one portion of a vast, long column. As the battle raged, trumpets were sounding from both sides, summoning aid. Behind him, Scipio could now hear the pounding of thousands of horses’ hooves, and knew it wasn’t Mongolian cavalry approaching. The Mongolian colonel barked some quick orders at his horsemen, and the skilled riders quickly turned their mounts and fled back up the hill from which they’d attacked only moments before.

Scipio watched them go. He heard Silo fire another shot at the departing horsemen; unusually, it didn’t seem to strike a target. But Scipio wasn’t surprised. He knew why the marksman’s aim was suddenly off.

Scipio walked over to the crumpled body of Private Li Wei, then awkwardly fell to his knees beside the young man’s corpse. He sensed the large, looming presence of his Sergeant behind his shoulder.

“Buddha wept,” Necalli murmured, his voice tight.

“What?” Private Lallena asked as he walked up behind Scipio. “Who...?” Then he spotted Li, his body all too still, the blank stare in the young man’s eyes. “No. Oh no. Madre de Dios, no...”

Behind them, Silo stood in silence, remonstrating himself for that one missed shot. He knew he’d never had a chance, that by sheer luck the Mongolian’s lunge had been timed too perfectly. But he missed so rarely, and of all the shots to miss...

Scipio reached down and gently closed Li’s eyes with his fingertips. Several more riflemen were dead of course, their bodies laying on the cold, sodden ground around him. He’d mourn for them too, but Li... Li had been special. He’d been the youngest soldier in the Legion. He was the son of the man who had developed the very same weapon that they all carried. He’d received no end of good-natured ribbing for his youth and for his parentage, but every man in the 14th Legion had no small amount of admiration for him. As the son of a prominent, privileged family, he hadn’t needed to enlist—but he’d chosen to do so, to risk his life alongside the very men who carried his family’s legacy in their hands.

And now he lay dead in a foreign land, across a vast ocean from his home. It would be weeks at the earliest before his family knew of his death. But he had another family, the men of Rome’s 14th Legion, and every one of them would mourn his passing first.

But not Scipio. He ruthlessly set his sorrow over the young man’s death aside and cast an angry glare up the hillside to his right.

“I’ll find you,” Scipio murmured under his breath. “I’ll find you, you one-eyed bastard, I swear it to Mars himself...”

[CCRunner]

Chapter 16 – Scipio's Sabre

Part 2

Colonel Subotai stood on the parapet of New Serai’s high stone walls and glanced up at the sky. It was still the rainy season, but it was merely overcast today; the heavy grey clouds were only slightly less dark than the steel of the heavy Roman cannon that were just visible in the distance as they slowly rolled into position.



The city was doomed, that much he knew; the Great Khan had refused to be distracted from his efforts to conquer England to reassign troops to defend the homeland. The Romans would take the city with their usual ruthless efficiency, aided by those horrific, booming cannon they used to such great and deadly effect.

But he would give them a fight. He’d already blooded them; the Mongolian cavalry commander took some small satisfaction from that. Not much satisfaction though, and not as much as he’d hoped for when he’d led his best cavalry troops out of the city four days before. He’d found a perfect place to ambush the Roman column, where the road from Ning-Hsia to New Serai passed directly beneath a hill with a long, smooth slope, perfect for a cavalry charge. He hadn’t possessed sufficient numbers to smash the column completely, of course, but he’d expected to wipe out at least one Legion, possibly more. By rights, he should have. The ambush had worked perfectly. The Romans had been caught by surprise and unprepared; their usually-formidable infantry squares had been smashed asunder.

But they’d rallied. Some had fled, but most had stood and fought. They were accomplished soldiers, Subotai had to admit. He particularly remembered that tall, sandy-haired rifleman he should have, by rights, decapitated with a single blow from his sabre. He’d targeted the man because he’d been rallying the Roman troops, and they had, in turn, inflicted an unexpected and surprising number of casualties on his horses and men.

Subotai grunted in irritation at the memory. It was the first sound he’d made since he’d climbed to the top of the wall. His aides, standing nearby, knew better than to disturb the Colonel, however.

Infantry were supposed to quail at the very sight of cavalry; if their defensive formations broke apart, they were supposed to run like rabbits. Instead, the Romans had stood their ground, firing their rifles, attacking the horses and riders with their bayonets, even dragging the men out of their saddles!

Yes, he admired them; no wonder they’d conquered their own continent and now seemed destined to conquer another. But he hated them too. He was, of course, a Mongolian—and a patriot.

Now they’d come to his city, the city where he’d been born and raised, the city whose streets had been his playground, and whose surrounding fields had been his training ground. To the Romans, it was just another city, just another siege, just another stepping stone on their path to world conquest; to him, it was home. They’d take her, his city, but not without a price. He expected to die in the process, but he’d take many, many Romans to hell with him—that big, sandy-haired, hard-faced rifleman among them. They’d meet again; Subotai knew it in his bones, and this time it would end as it should when cavalry and infantry clash.

A sound like a single clap of thunder, but lower and sharper, echoed off the walls of the city and the buildings behind them. Subotai watched as a cannonball bounced harmlessly off the grass-covered glacis below the high stone walls.

“That didn’t take them long,” one of his aides remarked grimly.

Subotai nodded. “They’ll find the range before too long. For all the good it will do them.”

His aides laughed softly at that. New Serai’s walls were high and thick and solid, made of solid granite. Though they’d been built centuries before, they were kept in excellent condition; a coastal city on a continent shared with the Greeks and the English couldn’t take chances. It would take the Romans days, maybe even weeks to carve out a breach in the high, thick walls. The city gates were huge, made of solid oak faced with thick sheets of cast iron, and looked out over the lowest-lying terrain around the city, where the cannons would have the hardest time shooting at them. And New Serai’s seaward-facing walls were just as formidable. The Romans would be sitting outside in the cold and wet for some time. They’d shiver on the cold ground or in makeshift tents while the Mongolians were comfortable in their homes, warmed by burning the massive amounts of wood that had been chopped out of the nearest forests in anticipation of this siege.

Subotai frowned and grunted, reminding himself that it was not wise to underestimate one’s enemy. Would waiting in the rain make the Romans weary and demoralized, or would it make them angry and determined? He couldn’t allow his own men to get soft, especially since they might not have to fight the Romans for weeks.

“Order an assembly,” he said to one of his aides. “The entire garrison. Infantry, cavalry, artillery—everyone in the square in one hour. Tell the men to be ready for full drills.”

“Yes, Colonel,” the aide responded sharply, then turned and left. Subotai noticed the subtle grin on the man’s face. He clung to hope, as many in the city did, that the Romans could be stymied, that they’d turn away. Subotai knew better, but if the illusion meant that his men fought harder and killed more Romans, so much the better. Perhaps if the Romans won enough pyrrhic victories, they’d decide that the price of conquering Mongolia was too high, and they’d return home in their frigates and galleons and stay on their own continent where they belonged.

Yes, the Romans would pay dearly for New Serai, Subotai told himself; they’d curse the name of this place down through the ages. As for the Mongolians, songs would be sung about Colonel Subotai’s last stand. He was certainly doing everything in his power to ensure it. The Great Khan would be proud.

* * *

Nara waited in the shadow of a recessed doorway and silently cursed her own efficiency.

It hadn’t been that hard to obtain employment in the home of Major Hakuho, Colonel Subotai’s quartermaster. Many people, women in particular, had fled the city when Ning-Hsia fell. Domestics were, therefore, hard to come by. Then she had made herself indispensible to the fat old man, segueing from mopping floors to demonstrating a talent for numbers that meant she was, before long, putting the regimental books in order (probably for the first time ever). Hakuho blessed her and congratulated himself on finding such a jewel, even if he sometimes regretted that his age and girth meant he could no longer take advantage of all the qualities that the attractive young woman had to offer. Nara tolerated the occasional leer or pinch in exchange for ready access to detailed information regarding the city, its supplies, and its defenders. And she had to admit, she had a talent for organization and numbers.

But maybe if she didn’t, the city wouldn’t now be so well-supplied, and then maybe the sentry strolling down the street wouldn’t be so intolerably fat and slow. She silently urged him to move along, trying to add the power of her own mind to whatever kept the man’s chubby legs moving. She had an appointment to keep, after all.

Eventually, the rotund guard managed to amble past her and around the corner of a low stone building—without noticing her in the doorway, even though it was still daylight, leaving her both critical of yet thankful for his unsuitability to his assigned task. The narrow, cobble-stoned street was now abandoned, save for Nara. She silently strode across the lane, then past several doors until she came to the one she was after. She eased it open and stepped inside.

The doorway opened into a stairwell, which she started to climb. The building itself had the desirable features, for her purposes, of being little-used, relatively tall—six storeys in total—and also being right next to New Serai’s wall. Nara reached the stop of the stairs then settled in next to a window to wait.

She didn’t have to wait long; she heard a bell pealing in the distance at the nearest Hindu shrine, tolling the hour to the faithful. Nara had the small lamp she’d carried in a cloth bundle under her arm lit before the echo died away. The lamp was unusual in that its light could be completely concealed by brass shades; each one could be easily lifted to reveal the light and thereby point it in a particular direction. Hide and reveal the light in a predetermined sequence, and one could use it to communicate. As Nara was now doing.

If she was caught, of course, she’d be killed as a traitor and a spy. Well, that was what she was, so she had girded herself mentally and emotionally for that possibility. The Khan had taken the life of her mother and father; perhaps it would be appropriate, she thought, if he took hers as well. But not before she hurt him back as much, if not more, than he’d hurt her. Nara took every precaution to avoid capture, yet she was resigned to the likelihood that sooner or later, her luck would run out.

Or at least she had been. Before Mycenian.

It had seemed then that her luck had indeed run out early, just after that Mongolian city had fallen to the invading Romans, the first to do so. One of the local resistance cells had discovered and captured her, then had tortured her to discover what information she’d conveyed to the enemy. Day by day, hour by hour, they had sapped what little strength she had left. It was a waiting game, with her merciless captors holding all the cards. Sooner or later she would break and tell them everything. Then she would be disposed of.

But before that happened, against all sense, reason, and expectation, she’d been rescued.

As she descended the stairs, her mission for today accomplished, she smiled at the memory, shaking her head as she remembered her unlikely saviour. Lieutenant Marcus Scipio. Sometimes it bothered her, how often she found herself thinking about him. Sometimes she hated him; here she’s been prepared to die, and he’d gone and given her something to live for. Damn him. She didn’t think she could fall for a soldier, and a soldier he was, to the core: simple, tactless, uncouth; reckless and foolhardy to boot. But he had a good heart... and he was all man. What more could a girl want?

To live to see him again, for one thing, she silently answered her unspoken query.

So as she opened the door to go back out into the street, she reminded herself to focus on the task at hand. She reflected, as she made her way down the quiet street, that she might have her wish soon. She might have a chance to see Marcus, assuming that he was indeed camped outside the city walls with the other Romans, and sooner than anyone else supposed. Provided the Romans were able to properly use the information that she’d just sent them.

Because Nara knew there was another way into the city. And now the Romans did as well.

* * *

“Thank you, Captain,” Major Scaurus said pleasantly as he was handed the note, which was sealed with wax. He placed it upon his desk as if it was of no great import and waited until the Captain left the tent.

Once the Captain had gone, Scaurus picked up the letter and tore off the seal. The Captain himself had been the only one to witness and transcribe the message. Even then, it was in a code only the Major understood, because he had created it. No, that wasn’t entirely accurate: one other person understood it, the young Mongolian woman whom Scaurus had taught the cipher.

“Now then, my dear Nara,” Scaurus muttered to himself as he decoded the message. “What bright news do you bring me on such a dreary day?”

A moment later, a grin appeared on the Major’s lips, beneath his long moustaches. Shortly after that, the grin broadened into a smile.

Scaurus lit the sheet of paper in the flame of the lamp that illuminated his desk, then left it to burn on a plate while he sat back, lips pursed as he thought and planned. At last, he rose from his chair and went to see General Rutullus.

“Sir,” Scaurus said once he was alone in the command tent with his General.

“Major,” the General said with a curt nod, setting down a supply report to give his chief intelligence officer his full attention. Scaurus noticed that the close-shorn auburn locks appeared shot through with a little more grey of late.

Neither man flinched as a nearby cannon went off, followed by a distant, muffled thud as its payload impacted—rather ineffectually—against the thick city walls. After the sound faded, however, the General sighed heavily.

“We’ll be here until doomsday at the rate my esteemed engineers and artillery commanders are proceeding,” General Rutullus said gloomily. “If you’ve come to tell me how low morale is, save your breath. I’ve been told as much several times over.”

“Well, speaking for myself, sir, my own morale is excellent—markedly improved, in fact,” Scaurus said as his General cocked one sardonic brow in response. “You see, sir, I just received the most interesting little message from a young lady-friend of mine.”

“Why would I be interested in your peccadilloes, Major?” the General asked gruffly.

“Because you’re acquainted with the young lady as well, sir,” Scaurus replied good-naturedly. “You may recall being formally introduced to her at Mycenian?”

Rutullus blinked. “Nara?”

“None other, sir,”

Rutullus’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “You have something, Major. Tell me what it is.”

Scaurus told him.

The General propped his elbow upon his table and rested his chin in his hand. “It’s risky,” he said.

“My father, God rest his soul, sir, always said, if war wasn’t risky, we’d let the women and children fight it, wouldn’t we?”

“You’ll need the right man to run such an operation,” Rutullus said. “Someone who’s… what’s the word… hungry. And, dare I say it, reckless. Not to mention…”

“…expendable?” Scaurus prompted him. Rutullus eyed him sharply; Scaurus pretended not to notice. “I think I have just the man, sir.”

“Very well,” the General said. “I leave it in your capable hands, Major.”

“I’m honoured by your faith and trust, sir,” Scaurus said.

“Don’t get used to it,” Rutullus muttered as Scaurus turned and left, well aware that the Major had heard him.

* * *

As the light of day—such as it was under the gloomy skies—faded, Scipio and his men watched desultorily as the last few cannonballs fired that day bounced harmlessly off of New Serai’s thick stone walls.

“Bloody hell,” Silo remarked, unknowingly echoing his own General’s sentiments not long before, “we’ll all be in our graves of old age before they get us in there!”

“I thought that last shot caused a little damage,” Corporal Lallena said brightly.

“Aye, to the cannonball,” Sergeant Necalli remarked with a grin.

Scipio and the others laughed quietly at the remark. The hard-featured Lieutenant reflected that it was good to hear a little laughter from the men, even if it was subdued. After the news of the fall of London, the long, soggy march to New Serai, the loss of several of their comrades in the cavalry attack—Private Li especially—and now what appeared would be a long, drawn out siege of New Serai, the spirit of his unit was lower than he’d ever seen it.

There were rumblings among the men, as they wondered just what they hell they were doing on Mongolia anyway. The Mongolians certainly didn’t want them there, and it didn’t appear they were doing the English any good, so what was the point? It wasn’t much more than the usual grumbling soldiers indulge in—yet. But standing around watching their cannon ineffectually attempting to open a breach in the city’s formidable walls wasn’t exactly helping.

“Well, well, now here’s a fine sight,” a cultured voice said from behind them. “Some of Rome’s finest, enjoying the night air and the local scenery.”

The riflemen turned around and, upon seeing the silk sash of a senior officer and the silver epaulettes of a major, brought themselves to attention.

“At ease, lads,” Major Scaurus said with a good-natured wave of his hand. “Marcus, my boy,” he said, smiling as he glanced at Scipio, “A word, if you please?”

Scipio did not return the Major’s smile, nor echo his friendly manner in any way. He cast a wary glance at Necalli, then followed Scaurus away from his men.

“Uh-oh,” Silo remarked under his breath.

“This means trouble, doesn’t it?” Lallena said.

“Count on it,” Necalli replied.

“What do you want?” Scipio asked insolently once they were out of earshot of the men. “Sir,” he added when Scaurus cast him a warning glance.

“That’s one of many things I like about you, Marcus—you’re all business,” Scaurus remarked. He nodded towards the city walls. “What do you think of our progress thus far?”

Scipio barked a laugh. “What progress? Slapping the walls with a wet noodle would have as much effect!”

Scaurus frowned. “The cannon will open a breach, Lieutenant. Eventually. The thing is, the General, see, he shares the sentiment of his men.”

“What sentiment is that, sir?” Scipio asked.

“He’s impatient,” Scaurus said. “He doesn’t relish the prospect of standing it out here in the rain for weeks, waiting for the artillery to eventually do their job, anymore than the rest of you do.” Scaurus smiled wolfishly. “Fortunately, thanks in no small part to his utterly brilliant, if I do say so myself, chief of intelligence, the General has a plan to crack this particular nut open much, much sooner.”

Scipio caught the drift of the conversation immediately. He laughed ruefully.

“Why do I get the feeling this will involve me and my men doing something foolhardy and dangerous?” he said.

“Now, don’t be petulant, Marcus,” Scaurus mildly remonstrated him. “Last time you did something foolhardy and dangerous, it was your own idea.”

“A woman’s life was at stake,” Scipio replied quietly, his gaze cast down at the ground.

“So it was. And so it is again.” Scipio looked up suddenly, directly at Scaurus. “She’s there, Marcus. In New Serai.”

“Nara?” Scipio asked. Scaurus nodded, and Scipio looked over his shoulder at the city, as if he could see her there, or sense her somehow.

Scaurus looked at Scipio with an appraising eye, then frowned. “What happened to your sword, Lieutenant?”

“Huh?” Scipio said, tearing his thoughts away from the comely Mongolian spy he’d rescued in Mycenian. “Oh. That. Cheap bloody thing. Broke in that cavalry ambush.”

“Hmmm. Can’t afford another?” Scaurus asked shrewdly.

Scipio’s lips pressed together and he glared at the Major. No, of course he couldn’t afford another sword, he’d barely been able to afford the cheap weapon he’d purchased when he’d been unexpectedly promoted to the officers’ ranks.

If he’d been pressed, Scipio would have admitted that the Roman army had its priorities straight: it provided its riflemen with their guns and ammunition, the artillery with their gunpowder and shot, the cavalry with their horses. Officers, however, were expected to purchase their own swords. Some bureaucrat back home had classified them as a fashion accessory, a relic of a bygone age; and yet, any officer worth his salt was expected to carry a sword. (They were also expected not to wield firearms—though Scipio did, another thing that set him apart from his fellow officers and earned their disdain.) Most officers came from Rome’s wealthy patrician class—a fact of which Scipio was constantly reminded—and could easily afford to buy a decent sword. But Scipio had risen from the ranks based upon merit, and without a sestertius to his name.

“You know,” Scaurus said matter-of-factly, ignoring Scipio’s resentful glare, “a Captaincy carries with it a substantial pay raise.”

Scipio laughed derisively. “Is that what you’re offering me if I do whatever this thing is and succeed? You’ll make me a Captain?” In response, Scaurus nodded. “And what if I fail?” Scipio asked.

Scaurus smiled. “Ah, Marcus,” he said smoothly, “if you fail, you’ll be beyond all such worldly concerns.” He put a fatherly hand on the dubious rifleman's shoulder and began walking toward the outskirts of the Roman camp, just as the first of the evening’s cooking fires were lit. “Let me tell you about this little hole in the Mongolians’ armour that your young lady friend has discovered and shared with us…”

[CCRunner]

Chapter 16 – Scipio's Sabre

Marcus Scipio and the Battle of New Serai, 1770 AD

Part 3



The night surrounding the Roman war frigate Hercules was deceptively calm. The only sound audible after the sun set was the gentle splashing of the small waves that lapped against the great war ship’s wooden sides. By rights, the sailors and other men aboard should have been peacefully asleep, rocked to slumber by the gentle movement of the great ship as she nestled in calm waters. But instead, this night, every man on board was wide awake, and alert as well. For the waters in which their vessel rested at anchor were in enemy territory, and on a hill only a mile away lay a city under siege. Tonight, a dozen men on board would attempt to break the city wide open—or die in the attempt. The tension in the air was almost palpable.

Scipio and a small, select group of the 14th Legion’s Riflemen had rowed out to the Hercules earlier that day, two days after Scipio had reluctantly agreed to take part in Major Scaurus’ audacious plan to open the well-fortified city to the Roman invaders. Scaurus had insisted only on volunteers for the mission. Scipio had not been surprised when Sergeant Necalli, Corporal Silo, and Private Lallena had all stepped forward, along with eight others, but he’d been proud, and reassured as well. They’d fought together for months now, and could predict one another’s actions; and he was certain that a shared desire to avenge Li motivated them. Even so, though he was glad to have them along, he was worried for their safety. And his own.

But the time for sober second thought was long past. The Hercules’ captain gave a nod, and Scipio and the dozen riflemen from his company scrambled silently into a waiting longboat. Crewmen from the Hercules had the oars, and began to skilfully guide the boat toward the city’s high, formidable walls.

Scipio forced himself to be calm. The moon was new tonight, so only the dim lights of the stars and the nearby city were available to guide their way. Yet it seemed to Scipio that it was too much light by half; he felt terribly vulnerable in the rocking longboat. The small waves that slapped against the sides sounded like booming cannonades. Surely some alert sentry would spot their approach, or hear it, and raise the alarm? He tried to put such concerns out of his head, but he had little else to do but sit and brood upon everything that could go wrong with this risky endeavour. He could feel his heart pounding and sweat trickling down his back, the way it did before a battle.

The boats came in close to the city, the dark, foreboding walls towering above the tiny craft. With the high walls blocking the city light, Scipio could now barely see his hand in front of his face. He repressed the urge to curse. How could they find their target in such utter blackness? But then the unmistakable odour of human waste assaulted his nostrils, and he knew they were close.

“There,” one of the crewmen whispered to him.

Scipio squinted into the darkness, and slowly a shape vaguely made itself apparent: a large, circular hole in the wall, darker than the stone wall itself, covered by a metal grate. The hole was nearly the height of a man. The crewmen skilfully manoeuvred Scipio’s boat so it was right next to the sewer outflow pipe, which only appeared above the waterline at low tide. Just as Nara had told them.

“Right, Cal,” Scipio whispered to his hulking Aztec Sergeant, “we’re on.”

Carefully, Necalli and Scipio slipped over the gunwales of the longboat and found their footing next to the sewer grate. The two riflemen gripped the metal grate and could both smell and feel the powdery rust on the wet metal. They heaved, but the grate did not move. They paused a moment and exchanged a glance.

“Again,” Scipio muttered, “on three. One, two…”

They pulled again, harder, straining, and were rewarded by hearing the old, rusted metal groan. Their elation was smothered by their fear of being heard. They paused a moment, ears straining to hear a shout of alarm, but the night remained as still and as silent as the grave.

“One more time,” Scipio whispered.

This time, both the rusted iron and the aged cement in which it rested gave way. The tearing sound of metal and rock made Scipio wince, but nothing could be done about it. Another tug, and the grate gave way. Scipio could hear his men in the boats sighing out the exuberance they normally would have shouted. Gingerly, he and Necalli eased the heavy grate into the water behind them. Then they stared into the effluent tunnel.

“Not the first time you and I have crawled through a sewer hole,” Scipio muttered.

“You always take me to the finest places, sir,” Sergeant Necalli replied. He turned back towards the boats. “Right, lads,” he whispered, “in we go.”

The riflemen disembarked from the longboats and gathered inside the sewage pipe. The drain ran at an angle, so once they waded waist-deep through the water at its opening, they found themselves walking, stooped over, up the pipe, two abreast, with the effluent running down in a stinking stream between them.

“We’re not going to impress many of the local girls after walking through this stuff,” Lallena muttered.

“Quiet in the ranks!” Necalli whispered urgently.

The men remained mostly silent for the remainder of their trip through the dark, malodorous drain. Now and then a man would slip in the dark and curse softly, and Scipio would restrain a strong urge to reach out and cuff the party responsible. He was sure they’d been heard or spotted at some point and would find a troop of Mongolian regulars waiting for them with bayonets at the ready. Thus far, however, they’d encountered no resistance.

Eventually, Scipio paused. “This is it,” he said when his hands blindly encountered metal rungs embedded in the stone. Without another word, he began to climb.

Less than a minute later, he had to bite back a curse when his head thumped against a heavy metal manhole cover.

“Allow me, sir,” Necalli whispered.

The big Aztec deftly eased himself past his officer on the same set of ladder rungs. He braced his broad back against the cold concrete wall, then gingerly lifted the manhole cover, grunting softly as he exerted himself. Not for the first time in their shared history, Scipio was glad to have the big Sergeant along.

With the cover out of the way, the dozen Romans scrambled upwards, glad to leave the stinking sewer behind them. They found themselves in a dark, silent alley and did their best to remain silent. They were now deep inside enemy territory without any hope of support from their comrades. They were completely and utterly alone.

Scipio glanced around at the dark shapes of the buildings surrounding the alley where his riflemen now crouched. The buildings were nearly as dark as the night sky, save for the occasional glow of a candle or a lantern in some window that emulated the cold, twinkling lights of the stars above. Scipio felt his stomach twinge with anxiety. He pushed the vulnerable feeling away. He had a job to do.

It only took him a moment to get his bearings. Nara’s instructions had been detailed and precise; he silently blessed the young woman for it. He found the north star in the sky, then set off down the alley in its direction, silently signalling for his riflemen to follow. Every man in the unit was tense. One rifleman coughed, and every one of his comrades turned and cast a murderous glance in his direction.

Scipio exhaled in frustration, but said nothing. So far, everything had gone well; but rather than assuring him, this only heightened his sense that something was going to go horribly wrong. Wasn’t that always the way things went in his life? He shook his head as if he could force such distracting thoughts from it. He and his riflemen only had a few hours of darkness to accomplish their goal; it was best to ignore his superstitions and get on with it.

He reached the end of the alley. Cautiously, he peered out around the side of the building onto a secondary street lit by a few gas streetlights. The pale, yellowish light they cast flickered as they strove to illuminate the long, dark street. Directly across from him was the entrance to another alley; off to the right was a sign for a public house, decorated by a dragon. Scipio nodded and allowed himself to relax just a little. He was right where he was supposed to be. One more block over, across one more street, and they’d arrive at their first objective for the night.

Scipio looked down toward both ends of the street. Seeing it was abandoned, he patted Necalli on the shoulder and gestured with his head across the street. The big Aztec nodded and, without a moment’s hesitation, sprinted across the street and into the alleyway opposite. Once there, he pressed most of his bulk into the darkness the alley offered, holding out one hand with an upturned thumb back towards the rest of his unit.

Scipio sent Lallena across next. Then Silo. Then, one at a time, the remaining men of the unit. Half the men had safely made their way across the street when disaster struck.

The next rifleman was just about to sprint across the street when Scipio heard the sound of a low voice, speaking Mongolian, coming from down the street. He threw one arm out in front of the rifleman to hold him back, then carefully looked around the corner.

Two sentries were walking across the entrance to the street. Pass on by, Scipio silently willed them. But when they were halfway across, one of the sentries gestured down the street towards the two alleys where Scipio’s riflemen were hiding. The sentry’s partner was gesturing in the direction they’d originally been heading, and Scipio hoped he’d win the argument; perhaps he had a bottle or a woman he was anxious to get back to. But his partner, no doubt bucking for a promotion, won out, and with a resigned shrug, the reluctant sentry followed him down the street. Right towards Scipio and his men.

A silent string of curses ran through Scipio’s head. He leaned back into the alley so he was watching the two sentries approach with only one eye around the corner. The officious one was taking time to inspect every doorway on one side of the street, and gestured to his more slovenly comrade to do the same on the opposite side. Scipio’s teeth ground together; proceeding like that, of course they’d discover his men. He looked back. The alley wasn’t deep enough for them to retreat and hide, and ducking back into the sewer would take too long. Across the street, Scipio could see Necalli watching him anxiously from the darkness, the dark shapes of the other half of the unit huddled behind him.

Scipio’s lips pressed together into a grim line. He had only seconds to make a decision. He shook his head and shrugged. Action was always better than inaction, he told himself. He cast one glance at Necalli, hoping to convey a silent message of be ready to the big Aztec. He then stepped out of the alley and began to walk up the street.

To call it walking, though, would be generous. More accurately, he began to haltingly stumble up the street towards the dutiful Mongolian sentry, who now froze in his tracks to watch this sole figure lumbering towards him. Scipio had been taught the words to a particularly coarse, bawdy Mongolian drinking song in Ning-Hsia; he began to sing it, or, more accurately, mumble it, hoping that his accent would be buried in the slurred speech of a drunk. He leaned against the wall of the building next to him, sometimes with this hand, sometimes with his shoulder. Besides conveying the image of a drunk, this also kept him in the darkest part of the street. Scipio hoped the sentries would not be able to discern his light brown hair and Roman uniform until it was too late.

The dutiful sentry barked something at him. Scipio pretended not to hear. He kept shuffling forward, his head bent down so his shako hid his sandy hair. He giggled drunkenly after softly singing what he’d been told was a particularly crude verse. The sentry spoke to him again in curt, indignant Mongolian, then gestured to his comrade to join him.

Yes, Scipio thought, watching them from beneath the stubby peak of his shako. Come here, both of you, nice and close…

The two sentries were walking towards them, and Scipio pretended to suddenly notice them and stopped in his tracks—right in the darkest spot on the street, where he knew he wouldn’t be visible as much more than a shadow. They were close now, five paces away. Scipio bent over and made sounds as though he were about to retch. The reluctant sentry made a disgusted noise and slowed his approach. His more dutiful companion was not put off, however, and walked right up to Scipio. With his limited Mongolian, Scipio thought he heard the words “curfew”, “punish”, and “drunkard”.

Not that any of that mattered, because a heartbeat later, the Mongolian was unable to speak.

Scipio had straightened suddenly and unexpectedly, and his knee drove into the sentry’s groin with such force the man felt as though he’d been struck with a sledgehammer. Scipio took a step back, grabbed the sentry’s head, and pulled it down as he drove his knee up again. The man’s nose broke with a wet, sickening crunch and he collapsed to the pavement.

Scipio stepped over him towards the second sentry, who was back-pedalling in panic. He reached out and caught the front of the man’s overcoat, halting his backward progress. Scipio’s fist swung forward, aimed straight at the man’s chin.

Even as he struck home, however, Scipio sensed that this second sentry would be more formidable than his dutiful partner. He rolled with the punch, twisting his entire body, and managed to free his coat from Scipio’s grasp in the progress. He stumbled away from the big Roman rifleman, who was right on his heels. Scipio tackled the man and they both dropped to the cobblestoned street. Scipio grabbed the man’s head and pulled it back, preparing to smash it against the hard stones. Just before he could, however, he spotted the whistle in the man’s mouth. Then he heard it blow.

“Bloody hell!” Scipio cursed as he rammed the man’s forehead against the cobblestones. The sentry had stopped blowing on the whistle—in fact, he’d swallowed the thing—but the damage was done. Scipio smashed his opponent’s head against the ground twice more until he stopped moving, then one more time just to vent his anger.

“Come on!” Scipio hissed at the half-dozen riflemen still hiding in the alley near the sewer.

He then took off at a run towards the rest of his men, gratified to hear his soldiers’ worn boots slapping against the cobblestones. Once the two halves of the unit were reunited, they began to run down the alley, desperate to reach their destination before the whistle blast brought more Mongolian sentries to the scene.

This alley was long and dark; its far entrance looked like a narrow slit in a grimly-lit canyon. Scipio thought he heard voices in Mongolian far behind him. So other sentries, alerted by the whistle’s call, had discovered their fallen comrades. Maybe they’d just assume the men had been mugged? Then he heard more high-pitched whistles blowing. No, there was no way a soldier in a city under siege was going to shrug off an attack on one of their patrols.

Damn, damn, damn! Scipio cursed silently. Even if his men reached their destination, they’d have to hide there, maybe through the rest of the night and the next day. Even then, the inner city patrols would be increased and on the alert. And of course, there was a very good chance that they’d be discovered.

The next sound he heard made him realize that he needn’t worry about fulfilling the plan. He and his men would be lucky to live through the night. Because echoing through the narrow alley, from both ends, came the sharp, heavy sound of horse’s hooves clattering on cobblestones.

Cavalry.

Scipio dug his heels in and came to a stop; his men followed suit. Looking down to the end of the alley, he could see them now: Mongolian cavalry, reputedly the best in the world, cantering in the street, the riders determinedly glancing about for any sign of intruders. The Romans, to a man, then glanced over their shoulders to the entrance to the alley, from whence they’d come. The same bone-chilling sight of armed men on horseback appeared there as well.

Scipio swallowed hard. His mouth and throat felt bone-dry. He and his paltry force of a dozen riflemen were trapped, bottled up in a narrow alley, ready to be picked off like so many apples stuck in a barrel. They were as good as dead.

[CCRunner]

Chapter 16 – Scipio's Sabre

Marcus Scipio and the Battle of New Serai, 1770 AD

Part 4

Scipio didn’t believe the situation could get any worse. He and nearly a dozen other Roman riflemen were cowering in an alley in the Mongolian city of New Serai, awaiting discovery by two squads of cavalry clearly visible at each end of the narrow passageway. When they were discovered, a quick charge by each squad would cut the trapped riflemen to ribbons.

The tall Roman lieutenant grunted quietly in resignation. He pulled his rifle from where it was slung over his shoulder. Several of his comrades emulated him.

“We’ll give them a hell of a fight, lads,” he muttered. “We’ll take more than a few of them to hell with us.”

Around him, his men softly murmured their assent—and their resignation to their fate. He heard them quietly checking the breeches of their rifles, ensuring they were loaded. Then Scipio felt a hand on his forearm and frowned, wondering who among his riflemen would indulge in such a gesture. Then he heard a voice whispering from directly behind him.

“This way! Hurry!”

It was a woman’s voice, which made him notice that the hand on his arm was small and delicate, though a sudden, anxious squeeze bespoke of a strength that belied the size of that hand. His eyes widened in surprise, then in recognition.

“Nara?” Scipio whispered.

“This way, you Roman numbskulls!” she hissed urgently.

In the dark, she didn’t see Scipio’s mouth twist into a lopsided grin, which was just as well. As he looked in her direction, he could just make out her silhouette, outlined by an extremely dim light emanating from a doorway behind her.

“You heard the lady,” he whispered to his men, “this way, quick now! And stay quiet!”

With the odds stacked against them as they were, the Romans didn’t need to be told twice. Quickly and quietly, they shuffled after the petite Mongolian spy into the dimly-lit doorway. She eased the door closed behind them, then Scipio helped her bar it with a wooden brace. She’d left a candle on the floor a few paces back, which was the only source of light in the low, dingy hallway where the Romans now found themselves. One rifleman raised it, trying to increase the meagre illumination it provided, but Nara turned quickly and blew the candle out, plunging them all into darkness. A moment later, they heard the sound of hoofs clattering upon the cobblestones of the alley right outside the door.

The Romans and their Mongolian saviour held themselves as still as possible. Scipio, Necalli, and several others aimed their loaded rifles at the doorway, expecting it to burst open at any moment. They could hear voices in Mongolian on the other side. Sweat trickled down Scipio’s face and into his eyes, but he was so tense he didn’t notice its sting.

Then they heard horses’ hooves clopping away down the alley and off into the distance, and every man there let out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding until that moment. A couple of them laughed softly and nervously as they reflected on the close call they’d just survived.

“Good timing, love,” Scipio murmured to Nara in the darkness.

He heard a match scraping against flint, then saw it ignite. She re-lit her candle. As always, Scipio was struck by her beauty. Her long dark hair was pulled back from her face, which only emphasized her high cheekbones and dark, almond-shaped eyes.

But her delicate features were drawn into an angry frown as she looked at him. She hissed something in Mongolian; with his limited understanding of the language, Scipio could only discern some sort of reference to his head, and to a very foul substance with which she was asserting it must be filled.

“Good to see you too,” he responded.

Nara sniffed at him derisively, then her nose wrinkled. “You really need to change your cologne,” she remarked in Latin, one slender brow raised.

“You didn’t mind it so much last time,” Scipio replied, reminding them both of their previous adventure, when she’d crawled through a sewer with him and his comrades to escape a horde of Mongolian rebels.

“I hate to interrupt this tender reunion,” Sergeant Necalli said pointedly, “but what do we do now? Stay here all night? Those patrols have probably cut us off from the storehouse.”

Nara turned her contemptuous gaze upon the big Aztec. Necalli was fearless on a battlefield, but Scipio noted with a smirk that this small, fine-feature Mongolian woman made the big man wince.

“Thank you for pointing out the obvious, Sergeant,” she said, her voice positively oozing sarcasm. “Fortunately for you, I took account of your typical Roman inability to go anywhere without calling attention to yourselves.”

Scipio ignored the insult and smiled at her. “You have a backup plan,” he said.

“Of course I do,” she said impatiently, “but that doesn’t make our task tonight any easier, or less risky. Quite the opposite, in fact. So follow me, do what I say, and try not to alert any more sentries to your presence, will you?”

With that, she turned and began marching down the hall. She stopped a few paces onwards and looked back over her shoulder. “Coming?” she said expectantly.

Scipio gave his head a shake, then set off after her while beckoning over his shoulder for his men to follow.

“Women,” Silo muttered as they walked deeper into the dimly-lit building. “Can’t live with them...”

“...can’t shoot them,” Lallena added, before a stern glare from his Sergeant urged him to silence.

* * *

Colonel Subotai sat behind his desk and glared at his subordinate. He desperately needed sleep and was irritated that he’d been roused from his bed in the middle of the night. But he stifled a yawn and sat up straight, unwilling to betray a sign of weakness in front of his men. Especially not now, just as the siege of the city was beginning.

“You lost him,” Subotai said accusingly.

The Captain of New Serai’s guard dropped his head to acknowledge his superior’s conclusion, and his own shame. The Colonel’s teeth ground in irritation; his officers should know better than to indulge in unwarranted displays of emotion. Was he in command of a garrison of warriors or of women?

“So find him, Captain,” Subotai snarled. “And do not report back to me until you do!”

“Sir!” the Captain responded, snapping to attention and saluting quickly before he turned on his heel and marched out of the office to obey the order.

Subotai watched him go. Once he was alone, the Mongolian Colonel slumped in his chair and sighed. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. As if being surrounded by the Roman army wasn’t bad enough, now he had something else to worry about. One sentry was dead, choked on his own whistle of all things; an ignoble end, albeit gruesomely amusing to those with a black sense of humour. His partner was in the infirmary. The injured man had recovered his senses long enough to relate that he’d been attacked not by a Mongolian, but by a Roman.

The Colonel rose angrily from his desk. A Roman! Here, inside his city already! How could he have gotten in? Subotai shook his head and shrugged. There was always a way in; he’d sent men to sneak inside English cities on more than a few occasions a few years ago, when he’d been fighting with the Khan against the enemy in the north.

Now the shoe was on the other foot. Colonel Subotai experienced a brief moment of sympathy for those English city governors he’d been facing. He dismissed the feeling quickly, regarding it as an unwelcome sign of weakness—no doubt another product of his fatigue.

His emotions and his weariness did not matter; the situation did. Subotai focused on that. What was this man up to? Was he a spy? A saboteur? Was he alone? Did he have help inside the city from traitors? These questions and many others plagued him and ensured that he would not be getting any more sleep tonight, since answers would not be forthcoming until the man was caught.

Subotai walked over to the window of his office. Over the top of the lower building next door, he could see the dark outline of New Serai’s city walls. Beyond that, spreading out in all directions, he could see hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of small, twinkling fires that betrayed the location and size of the enemy camp.

A shiver ran down his spine. New Serai’s walls were high and thick; the city had an underground source of fresh water, stores of food and ammunition, and hundreds of soldiers and ordinary citizens determine to resist the foreign invader. Yet he knew it wouldn’t be enough. The Romans, he had to admit, reminded him of his own people in some respects: they were relentless and determined, and were convinced it was their destiny to rule the world. But they were a practical people as well. He tried to put himself in the shoes—no, into the mind of his nemesis, the Roman General, Rutullus. Could he bargain with the man, he wondered?

With a derisive snort, Subotai turned away from the window and abandoned that idea. He remembered the response of his Khan when he’d once suggested negotiating with the mayor of an English city for its surrender: “Wolves do not bargain with sheep,” the Khan had said contemptuously.

“And wolves do not bargain with other wolves, either,” Subotai muttered, glancing out of his window at the enemy campfires again. He nodded, and his upper lip curled back into a sneer. “So be it.”

This Roman who’d snuck into his city like a rat from the sewers did not matter. He was as good as dead. In a Greek city, he might have passed for a local; but in a Mongolian city, he would stick out like a faulty nail in a board of wood—and like a nail, he would be hammered down. His fate would be shared by any other Romans who might be with him, along with any traitors who might be helping him. The city was not so large, and searching for the intruder gave the Colonel’s bored yet eager troops something to do. It was only a matter of time before he was found.

A grim smile appeared on the Colonel’s thin lips. He had decided to take a personal interest in the intruder once he was caught. Withstanding a siege was proving to be tedious; overseeing the Roman’s torture would provide the Colonel with several hours of much-needed amusement.

Suddenly he felt energized. If you want a job done right, he reflected, you had to do it yourself. He marched to the door of this office and opened it. As usual, a servant was waiting outside.

“Have my horse prepared, and my uniform readied,” he said to the man. “I’m going to take charge of the search for the intruder myself.”

[CCRunner]

Chapter 16 – Scipio's Sabre

Marcus Scipio and the Battle of New Serai, 1770 AD

Part 5



“Put these on,” Nara said.

Each rifleman took one of the garments and eyed it dubiously. The deel was the traditional Mongolian outer garment; while similar in size and function to the great coats the Romans soldiers wore in inclement weather, the deel had flaps that wrapped around the body rather than being buttoned up the front. The deels Nara had acquired were made of cotton and were obviously, from their look and horse-like aroma, previously used.

“Go on,” the young Mongolian woman said when she saw the Romans hesitating. “They should fit over those Roman uniforms you were stupid enough to wear into enemy territory.”

“They kind of… smell,” Private Lallena remarked.

“And after crawling through a sewer, you don’t?” Nara retorted, her arms crossed and one slender eyebrow cocked. Lallena shrugged to concede the point, then pulled his mouse-coloured deel on over his uniform.

“Even with these on, we still won’t pass for Mongolians,” Scipio remarked.

“You will from a distance, in the dark,” Nara said, “which is why we have to work fast, before dawn. So hurry up and get dressed!”

A few minutes latter, all dozen riflemen were ready, their uniforms concealed beneath the plain, worn deels to provide a meagre disguise. Nara led Scipio to a dingy, yellowed window of the warehouse where they were currently hiding from the city’s disturbingly frequent patrols. The window looked out on an empty plaza, shaped like a trapezoid, which was dimly lit by a single gas lamp just outside the window. At the far side of the plaza, directly across from the warehouse entrance, two lengths of New Serai’s city walls met at a 120-degree angle.

“Fortunately, we don’t have far to go,” Nara said as she pointed to the corner where the walls met. “The clothing market is normally held here, but it’s been suspended during the siege, so the place should remain as abandoned as it is now.”

“Er, we were supposed to open one of the gates, love,” Scipio objected. “I don’t see one nearby…” he added as he turned his head to look down the side streets.

Nara sighed. “The gates are too well-guarded, especially after that stunt you pulled with the sentries,” she said. Seeing Scipio was about to object, she held up both her hands. “All right, I agree with you, you probably didn’t have much of a choice.” She turned her attention back to the corner of the city walls. “It’s a weak point,” Nara said as she tilted her chin in the direction of the corner. “According to the engineers’ reports, it’s strong enough on the outside, but the interior has structural weaknesses. You’ll see the cracks when we get close enough.”

“Even so, I don’t think we’re going to be able to dismantle the wall before sunrise,” Scipio said dubiously.

Nara turned and looked at him as though he’d suggested they build a bridge over the walls made out of toothpicks. She sighed, shook her head, and took a few steps back into the warehouse.

“Silly man,” she said. “We’re not going to dismantle the wall by hand. We’ll use this,” she said, and pulled a heavy canvas tarp off of a large mass of objects.
In so doing, she revealed over a dozen heavy barrels. Scipio’s eyes, and those of his men, widened as they recognized the markings on the side of the barrels, even though they were printed in Mongolian. They’d come to know those markings very well; according to the Mongolian script printed upon them, each barrel was filled with gunpowder. As they looked around, the Romans noticed similar tarps covering other collections of barrels in the dimly-lit warehouse.

“Now I know why she wouldn’t let us smoke,” Corporal Silo muttered.

Scipio could not repress a smirk. “Just like old times, eh, love?” he murmured to Nara.

“What can I say?” she murmured back. “The last time we were together... the earth moved.”

* * *

“Nothing to report, Colonel,” the cavalry captain reported after saluting sharply.

Colonel Subotai nodded. “Keep looking,” he said, then turned in his saddle to gaze down at the officer in charge of an infantry battalion that had been rouse from their beds. “Go door to door. Don’t take the residents’ word for anything; I want your men searching every nook and cranny in every building—homes, businesses… everything. Leave no stone unturned, Major.”

“Sir!” the officer responded with a salute, then turned to march off and fulfill his orders.

Subotai sat upon his horse and reminded himself to maintain his façade of calm command. Inwardly, his guts were in a knot. When he reviewed the facts from a coldly rational perspective, he had to admit that there seemed very little to worry about: a lone Roman loose in the city, and all of that based upon the report of a single, badly-injured sentry—who’d encountered the man in the dark. The sentry could have simply lost a fight with a drunk and wanted to cover his shame.

But Subotai’s instincts told him otherwise. Another sentry lay dead, and thousands of Romans were gathered outside the walls, eager to find a way in. At least one had done so; he knew it in his bones, the same way he knew that the man was not alone. When a single cockroach emerged into the light, inevitably there were dozens more of the filthy creatures lurking in a dark, dank crevice nearby. Subotai’s experience as a warrior was validating his gut instincts: were he in his opponent’s position, we would be sending men into the besieged city on extremely risky missions to try to crack the place open.

So the men could grumble about losing sleep and forgoing breakfast all they wanted, so long as none did it within earshot. Indeed, the men knew better than to cross the one-eyed veteran of innumerable campaigns who was now in charge of New Serai’s defenses. Subotai knew his latest command was very likely a suicide mission, but it wasn’t the first of those for which he’d volunteered. And hadn’t he survived all the previous ones?

Subotai grunted and shrugged. Death did not matter, not to a warrior. He’d lost his fear of it many years before, when he was still a child. What mattered was the mission, the objective. His was to defend the city from the invaders for as long as possible while inflicting as much damage as he could. Well, he would start with the Roman—Romans, he corrected himself silently, heeding, as he always did, his instincts—who had the temerity to trespass within his city.

“We’ll make another sweep along the walls,” he said over his shoulder to the cavalry officers accompanying him, then urged his horse forward.

Action was always better than inaction. Somewhere, inside the walls, was his quarry. A warrior like himself, he granted, who also had a mission to fulfill. The Roman could sit still no more than Subotai could; this particular cockroach could not avoid stepping out into the light, sooner or later. And when the Roman did inevitably emerge, Subotai thought as a grim smile played upon his lips, he would be there to crush him like an insect beneath his boot.

* * *

“How many is that?” Scipio asked as he straightened and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

Despite the coolness of the night, moving the barrels was hot work; it turned out that the cobblestone-covered square was uneven, with the corner where the city walls met at the high end, so the heavy gunpowder barrels essentially had to be rolled uphill. That also meant the job had taken longer than Scipio had hoped. Playing hide-and-seek with the Mongolian patrols hadn’t help in that regard. The men had not only abandoned the Mongolian deels they’d been wearing, they also removed their Roman riflemen’s jackets and were working in rolled-up shirtsleeves.

“Thirty-seven barrels now, sir,” Sergeant Necalli said. The big Aztec was also sweating, and breathing heavily. Rather than looking at his officer, Necalli’s eyes kept darting back and forth between the two ends of the street. As did Scipio’s.

Silo was positioned as a lookout at the west end of the plaza, another rifleman on its eastern corner. Twice now, once from each side, they’d signalled the approach of patrols, and the Romans had scurried back into the warehouse to hide. They’d watched each time as a dozen cavalry trotted by in the dark, their eyes watchful and wary. But none of them had looked twice at the growing stack of barrels at the far corner of the plaza. With their markings turned towards the wall to conceal what they contained, the barrels looked innocent enough. When the patrols had moved on, the Riflemen had resumed moving the barrels into place.

“Right,” Scipio said quietly with a nod, “let’s make it an even forty, then we light the fuse and run like hell.”

“Yes, sir,” Necalli said. He looked towards the warehouse and noted with approval that the last three barrels were already being rolled across the square by two Riflemen apiece. He gestured towards the warehouse that the number of barrels was now sufficient.

“The fuse is in place, sir,” Private Lallena told Scipio as he handed him a box of matches. “I thought you’d like the honour.”

Scipio smiled wearily at the Spaniard and reached into his pocket for a box of matches. At that moment, a nearby Hindu church’s bells pealed. Scipio’s head rose and he looked to the east, where he could just see the first soft glow of the approaching dawn. He sighed softly in relief; they’d finished their work just in time, it seemed.

His relief was short-lived, however, as the bells stopped ringing and, in their place, he heard a sound that never failed to send a chill to any rifleman’s heart: the unmistakeable sound of horses’ hooves. The metal horseshoes were clattering on the cobblestones of the street to the east. Scipio’s head turned to look in that direction, from which he could see a company of Mongolian cavalry rapidly approaching. He angrily wondered why the sentry he’d posted there hadn’t sounded the alarm, but then he spotted the man, or rather, spotted his body lying on the pavement, blood pouring from a bullet wound in his neck. The Mongolians must have shot him while the church bells had been ringing, so no one had heard it.

“Bloody hell!” Scipio swore. He heard Nara gasp from beside him as she spotted the danger, then heard Necalli sharply sucking in his breath through clenched teeth.

He gauged the distance to the warehouse, and that of the cavalry, who had clearly spotted them and were closing in. They’d never make it, he realized. In the open space of the square, the cavalry would easily cut him and his men down before they reached the door. And Nara as well. Scipio clasped her arm and looked about him, trying to formulate a plan. There was really only one option.

“Take cover behind the barrels!” he said to his men, and started pushing Nara in that direction. “GO!”

The riflemen didn’t need much encouragement. The gunpowder barrels they’d spent the night stacking against the cracked corner in New Serai’s city walls were the only available cover.

“Hope the bastards don’t start shooting,” Necalli muttered as he knelt behind a barrel filled with gunpowder and took his rifle from where he’d slung it over his shoulder.

He’d voiced a sentiment that every rifleman present shared. “Hold your fire,” Scipio ordered urgently, and his men obeyed. Starting a firefight while using gunpowder barrels for cover would be a very explosive form of suicide.

Scipio was kneeling behind the barrels with his men and Nara and peeked out through a gap created by the curve of the wooden casing of the containers. The Mongolians had halted their horses at the other side of the square, right out in front of the warehouse. The horses were evenly spaced out, indicative of the skill of their riders. Their carbines were unslung and pointing at the cornered Romans.

“Damn!” Scipio swore, afraid that the Mongolians would start firing any second. The explosive result would achieve his mission objective, but at the cost of his men’s lives—and Nara’s as well. He glanced at the young Mongolian woman with concern, momentarily sorry she was there. She looked back at him, her dark eyes filled with concern, but very little fear. He smiled in appreciation of her bravery.

Then he spotted the white cloth of her underskirt which was peeking out from beneath her long, dark dress, and an idea occurred to him.

“Pardon me, love,” he said, then reached towards her ankles and tore some of the white fabric away. He then tied it around the bayonet of his rifle and raised it up from behind the barrel where he’d taken cover.

He heard and recognized the command to hold their fire given by whoever commanded these cavalry. Then the same man addressed him in Latin.

“You’re trapped, Romans,” the man said. “There is no escape. But if you want to parley, send your senior officer out.”

Scipio began to rise, but stopped when he felt Nara’s hand on his forearm. “Be careful,” she whispered. “I know this man—he’s a killer.”

Scipio nodded, then smiled wolfishly, showing more confidence than he felt. “So am I, love,” he said as he rose, still clutching his rifle with its strip of white cloth. He then stepped out from behind the barrels to face his adversary.

[CCRunner]

Chapter 16 – Scipio's Sabre

Marcus Scipio and the Battle of New Serai, 1770 AD

Part 6 - Conclusion

Scipio could feel his stomach clenching as he walked out from behind the dubious safety offered by the barrels he and his men had stacked into one corner of the square. The barrels were filled with gunpowder; he had intended to ignite the explosives here at a weak point in the city walls, opening a breach and allowing the Romans to infiltrate the Mongolian city of New Serai. Before he could complete his mission, however, a squad of Mongolian cavalry had arrived in the square. If any of the Mongolians fired, he’d likely strike a barrel and ignite the gunpowder within, which would lead to a chain reaction with the other barrels. Scipio’s mission objective would be accomplished, but there wouldn’t be much of him left upon which to pin a medal.

So instead he’d tied a strip of white cloth around his rifle’s bayonet and now walked out from behind the cover of the barrels. The rifle was slung over one shoulder now, the strip of cloth fluttering from it in the gentle early morning breeze. He had no idea what he was going to do; he’d just wanted to keep the Mongolians from firing at the barrels, and a truce seemed like the best way to do that. Beyond that, though, he was all out of bright ideas.

Scipio scanned the group of a dozen Mongolian horsemen opposite, and his eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in anger when he spotted the group’s leader. He was a middle-aged man with a bald head and a black patch worn over one eye. Instead of sporting a carbine, he held in his right hand the large, heavy sword of a cavalry officer; the silver epaulettes on his uniform denoted him as a full colonel. He was the man who’d killed Private Li Wei, a man Scipio had personally sworn to kill.

“I know you,” Colonel Subotai said in nearly unaccented Latin, his one good eye narrowing when he saw Scipio.

“And I know you too, you one-eyed bastard,” Scipio replied.

Subotai grunted, amused at the insult. “That day I led my cavalry against your column. You rallied your men. You fought well.” Scipio said nothing, and Subotai shrugged slightly as though that earlier battle didn’t matter. “And now here you are, inside my city.”

“It’ll be ours soon enough,” Scipio remarked.

“Perhaps,” Subotai acknowledged, “but not before I send as many Romans to hell as I can. I can start with you, if you’d like.”

“You killed one of my men, you black-hearted bastard. A friend.”

The corners of Subotai’s mouth twitched upwards. “I hope to kill all your men, and all your friends, before I’m done.”

Scipio stole a glance to his left. A barrel was there, right beside him. Suddenly he had an idea. As he’d noted during the night, the ground of the square sloped downwards from the corner of the wall, where he now stood, to the warehouse, where the Mongolians were assembled. Scipio almost laughed. It was dangerous, desperate, even crazy, this idea… but it just might work.

“Yeh, well, I have something to give you first,” Scipio said.

“Oh?” Subotai said, watching Scipio suspiciously.

“It’s in here,” he said, nodding at the barrel beside him. He raised his left leg and placed it on the barrel’s top rim. He then pushed the barrel over onto its side, and as it started to roll down the gentle slope of the square towards the Mongolians, he gave it a shove with his boot just for good measure.

Subotai almost laughed at the gesture. He and his men were already moving their horses out of the barrel’s path. What did the Roman expect to accomplish? Then he saw Scipio drop to one knee and pull his rifle from his shoulder. He was looking down the rifle’s sights toward rolling barrel…

At that moment, everything came to Colonel Subotai in a rush. He spotted the pile of barrels behind and beside the Roman Lieutenant and immediately discerned their contents. A split-second after that, he comprehended the danger he and his men now faced. The barrel was getting closer, rumbling cacophonously as its wooden sides rolled over the cobblestones.

“GET AWAY!” Subotai shouted as he pulled back hard on his horse’s reins, making the beast whinny in surprised and rise on its hind legs, then turn and begin to gallop out of the square.



But his men were too slow to react. By the time they followed their officer’s lead, the barrel was practically in their midst. Which was exactly the moment when Scipio took his shot. The bullet flew fast and true. At such a close range, it easily penetrated the wood of the barrel. The heat the bullet possessed from being fired and the friction it generated as it drove through the barrel’s contents were more than enough to ignite the gunpowder. The barrel erupted in a ball of black, foul-smelling smoke and fierce flame. Splinters of the barrel’s wood and fragments of the metal bands that had bound it flew everywhere.

The shock wave of the blast knocked Scipio backwards into the barrels behind him, winding him. His ears were ringing as bits of wood and metal from the destroyed barrel rained down upon and around him. Across the square, he could see the Mongolians and their horses—or at least what remained of them. The men and their mounts closest to the blast suffered the most, of course. Of one horse all that seemed to remain was a head and a foreleg. The remaining horses were either injured or in a blind panic. One Mongolian rider slumped in his saddle, dead from a piece of shrapnel that had penetrated his skull, as his mount wheeled around and around in a panic. Another horse side-stepped to its right as if drunk, blood pouring from its belly, before it fell over, breaking and pinning the leg of its rider, who screamed in pain and then beseeched his God and his mother for relief. Yet another mount was galloping out of the square in a panic, its rider struggling to control the frightened beast.

Scipio gave his head a shake, then pushed himself to his feet. He turned and ordered his men back to the warehouse, but the ringing in his ears meant he couldn’t even hear his own voice and suspected his men couldn’t either. So instead he began waving and pointing, and they understood him soon enough. A moment later, his riflemen and Nara were all running toward the warehouse, picking their way over the gruesome remains of the Mongolian cavalry.

Scipio brought up the rear. He reached the warehouse door just behind Nara and pushed her towards it. Then he saw her glance over his shoulder and her eyes widened and her lips parted as she gasped. Scipio turned in time to see Colonel Subotai, who had escaped the carnage unscathed, facing him atop his horse from the eastern entrance to the square. Scipio’s jaw clenched. He pushed Nara through the warehouse door, where Necalli took hold of her and pulled her out of harm’s way.

“NO!” Nara shouted, but there was no way the slender Mongolian woman would escape the big Aztec’s grip.

Subotai and Scipio eyed each other appraisingly for a heartbeat. Scipio knew Nara had a point; a lone infantryman facing a mounted cavalry officer was one of the most uneven military matches imaginable. But the man facing him now had killed Private Li Wei. And more than mere revenge was on the line. Marcus Scipio may have been gutter-born and gutter-raised, but since joining Rome’s army he had gained something he’d never had back home: pride. The Mongolian Colonel had killed one Scipio’s men right in front of him, and for that he had to pay.

Subotai spurred his mount and the beast lurched forward, the great war horse achieving a gallop in the time it took to blink. The Mongolian knew Scipio had not had time to reload his rifle, and he had no intention of granting the rifleman such an opportunity. For his part, Scipio clasped his rifle, pointing the bayonet towards the approaching horse and rider. Sweat was dripping down his face and his back, and his heart was racing, but Scipio didn’t notice; his attention was fully focused on the rapidly-approaching threat.

Scipio remembered that the Mongolian had been wise to the trick he’d tried that day the column had been caught off-guard, of slashing a sword or bayonet at the horse’s mouth, so he didn’t bother. Subotai was expecting the Rifleman to dodge to the dubious safety of the warehouse, possibly trying to duck into its doorway. Scipio deceived him there as well. Instead, when the war beast and rider were almost upon him, Scipio pivoted to his right and back-pedalled into the square. Just as the Colonel’s cavalry sword slashed down at his head, Scipio fell backwards and performed an awkward but serviceable and life-saving backwards somersault.

Scipio rolled into a crouching position and raised his bayonet just in time to ward off another slash from the cavalry sword. Instead of trying to arrest the blow, which had broken his sword last time, Scipio instead used his bayonet to redirect the sword away from him. He then twisted the rifle in his hands while he thrust it upwards. Subotai tried to pull his sabre away, but found that Scipio had managed to trap the blade in the narrow space between his bayonet and the end of the rifle barrel.

The rifleman now had an advantage, if only for a moment, but he intended to exploit it. Just as he had thrust the rifle upwards a moment ago, he now pulled it back down, bringing the trapped sabre with it. Subotai, instinctively seeking to kept hold of his weapon, tightened his grip around the hilt, but this allowed Scipio to pull him off-balance so he was leaning out of his saddle towards his opponent. The tall rifleman twisted his wrists again, releasing the sword from the grip of his rifle and bayonet, and swung the butt of the rifle towards the colonel’s head.

The blow knocked two of Subotai’s teeth loose and opened a bloody gash over his ear. He was momentarily stunned, and his horse, left with a limp rider incapable of commanding it, could only shimmy away from the man beside it. Scipio moved with the beast, wary of coming within range of the slashing front or back hooves. He kept hold of his rifle with one hand and reached up with the other to grab the Mongolian’s coat. He pulled Subotai out of the saddle, and both men tumbled to the ground.

The Colonel recovered some of his senses and struck at Scipio’s head. The Roman rolled his head with the punch, just like he’d done in countless tavern brawls back home, and stunned his opponent again with a vicious head-butt. Dazed, Colonel Subotai’s one good eye rolled upwards into his head. Scipio released his grip on the man. He drew his rifle above his head, his grip high on its barrel, and with a guttural cry, thrust the bayonet down. The tip of the blade entered the Mongolian’s throat and ripped a bloody gash in it, spraying the front of the rifleman’s white shirt with a gout of red blood, but Scipio did not stop shoving it down until he heard the bayonet scraping against the cobblestones on the other side of his opponent’s neck.

Breathing heavily and shaking from the adrenaline coursing through in his body, Scipio stood up. He then remembered the Colonel’s deadly war-horse, and looked around in trepidation. He exhaled heavily and his shoulders slumped in relief when he saw that Sergeant Necalli had run out of the warehouse and had grabbed the horse’s bridle. The big Aztec was patting the beast’s flank and muttering something soothing to it in his native tongue.

Scipio was nearly knocked over when someone ran into him and locked arms around him. He wondered for a moment if one of the Mongolian cavalrymen had survived the blast of the gunpowder barrel, but then he felt the soft crush of breasts against his chest and relaxed. He embraced Nara and stroked her hair.

“I thought you were dead,” she told him, her voice shaking.

“I thought so too,” Scipio replied with a relieved laugh. He leaned his head back and looked into her face. Her dark, narrow eyes were shimmering with tears. “I didn’t know you cared, love,” he murmured.

“I wish to hell I didn’t,” she replied as she brushed a stray tear from her eye. Scipio smirked and laughed, and nodded to indicate he understood. It must be hard, he imagined, being in love with a soldier. But then again, it was no easier being in love with a spy.

“Lallena!” Scipio shouted, and the Spanish private quickly emerged from the safety of the warehouse. “Light that bloody fuse and let’s get out of here before any more patrols show up!”

“At once, sir!” Lallena responded and ran forward to where he’d left the fuse among the barrels.

Scipio began to march back towards the warehouse, Nara still in his embrace. He glanced back over his shoulder at the corpse of Colonel Subotai and then he suddenly stopped short.

“Hang on,” he said, “There’s something I need to do…”

* * *

Lieutenant Claudius Varius watched as the Roman cannon crew he commanded prepared their weapon for another long and no doubt fruitless day of firing at the solid walls of New Serai. The young soldier was well aware of the impatience of his commanding officers, and of the other men in the Roman army. He shared it. Nevertheless, he knew the walls would eventually fall. It was simply a matter of applying enough force in the same location; the result was inevitable. If only everyone else understood the physics involved as well as he did, maybe they’d be more patient.

Varius had been studying that very subject at the Academy in Ravenna back home when he’d been recruited. Caesar had recognized that properly utilizing cannon involved more that just loading the barrel and firing away. So bright young men like Varius had been wooed by army recruiters to bring their intelligence and skill to the vexing problem of bringing down thick stone walls with nothing more than a metal ball about the size of a man’s head.

“The brass are out in force today, sir,” Sergeant Quintus Pollo muttered to Varius, gesturing with a sideways nod of his head to a grassy ridge behind their position.

Varius glanced over his shoulder and felt his stomach lurch. Almost all of the Roman army’s command staff were gathered at the top of the ridge, sitting on their horses, watching his crew—including General Lepidus himself. The young lieutenant swallowed hard. He’d been criticized by his commanding officers for taking too long and firing too few shots; he’d countered that additional preparations were necessary to ensure better accuracy. Nevertheless, he wondered if such criticisms had filtered up the chain of command. Is that why the command staff were here, to monitor his performance first-hand?

“Well, let’s give them a good show!” Varius told his men, attempting to sound much more confident than he felt. “What’s the wind reading, Private Verenus?”

Verenus was a slender young man wearing spectacles who would have looked more in place in a classroom than a battlefield. He checked the gauges of a windsock he was holding.

“Southwesterly at five knots, sir,” Verenus said.

“Very well,” Varius answered. He flipped through a booklet of tables and figures that never left his side. He paused for a moment to study the numbers and performed a calculation inside his head. “Sergeant Pollo, have the men adjust the barrel to the northeast by… three degrees, and an additional degree and a half of elevation.”

The cannon crew adjusted the weapon, and Varius felt a small surge of pride at how quickly and professionally they responded.

“Ready, sir,” Pollo said.

“You may fire at will,” Varius told him.

The shot wouldn’t do anything dramatic, of course, but Varius was confident that, with his adjustments, it would strike the wall in the exact same spot his crew had been targeting for several days now. Between the efforts of his crew and the dozens of other cannon targeting the city walls, they were sure to see results… eventually.

He raised his telescope—a gift from his father—to his right eye and focused it on their target. Was there a crack there in the wall? Yes, he was sure there was a crack, it certainly looked like one. Maybe it had been there before. No matter, a crack was a crack, and the cannon balls would exploit it and eventually the wall would tumble. It may take several days, but Varius knew the result was inevitable. He felt a trickle of sweat roll down his back as he thought of his unexpected and high-ranking audience. If only they understood…

“FIRE IN THE HOLE!” Pollo shouted as he lit the fuse at the base of the cannon’s barrel, and the cannon crew all ducked and covered their ears. They already had cotton batting stuffed in their ears to protect against the noise, but the boom of the cannon penetrated into their eardrums and left their ears ringing almost constantly. No member of a cannon crew retired with good hearing.

A second later, the cannon roared and flame and foul-smelling smoke erupted from its barrel, as did the cannonball, flying too fast for the eye to see. The cannon rolled several feet back on its wheels in recoil. Almost immediately, the crew were washing it down with wet sponges to cool the barrel while other men hauled it back into position.

Through his telescope, Varius watched the target, waiting to see a puff of masonry dust to indicate the ball had struck home. Any second now…

Just then, a sound like the thunder from a dozen simultaneous storms rolled over the plains and hills outside the city, making every Roman flinch and unconsciously take a couple of steps back. All eyes were pulled towards the city, where an enormous fireball lit up the morning sky, briefly glowing brighter than the morning sun before turning into thick, black smoke. Masonry from the corner of the wall where the explosion had occurred flew outward. The explosion was then followed by another loud thunder-like rumble. As the Romans watched in stunned silence, the section of the wall where the explosion had occurred cracked, then crumbled and collapsed. Huge sections of the wall fell into the glacis, accompanied by smaller boulders. When the smoke and dust cleared, the Romans saw, to their astonishment, that the explosion had opened a huge breach in the wall, and that the rubble practically formed a natural staircase leading to it.



Varius was watching, shocked into silence like everyone else, when he noticed a horse standing beside him. He looked up and saw a Roman Major with long, dark moustaches looking at the breach appraisingly. Then the Major looked down at Varius and the corners of his mouth twitched upwards.

“An exceptionally fine shot, Lieutenant,” Major Scaurus said to Varius in a nonchalant tone.

“Er… th-thank you, Major…” Varius stammered as he tried to work out, in his head, what had just happened. Perhaps they’d overshot the wall and hit a powder magazine…?

“As you were,” Scaurus said, then turned his horse and trotted back to his General, chuckling softly as he rode.

* * *

Scipio watched with the rest of his men as the Roman army marched into New Serai. The riflemen were standing to one side of the city’s central square as Roman infantry and cavalry filled the space, asserting their control over this new acquisition for the empire in a very public fashion. Some Mongolians had gathered in the square to watch, though most had remained in their homes. They watched in silent resignation, though a few of the men paused to spit desultorily on the ground every now and then.

The Romans had poured through the breach in the walls in seemingly endless waves, and without Colonel Subotai to lead the garrison, the Mongolians had put up only a token resistance before surrendering. Scipio had considered his men’s part in the fight to be successfully completed once the gunpowder had been ignited and the breach opened. They were exhausted and they stank of stale sweat and the sewer; they’d spent the entire night hard in either hard labour or dodging cavalry patrols—sometimes doing both at the same time. So, led by Nara, they’d woven through New Serai’s alleys to a safe house where they had awaited the end of the battle.

The tall rifle Lieutenant smiled as he thought of Nara and all she’d done for him and his men. Bless her, but the girl had somehow arranged for them to hide in, of all places, a proper Roman bath—one of the best exports of Roman civilization, he reflected. He and his men had been able to scrub off the stench of the sewer they’d crawled through the night before. Nara had even arranged to have their uniforms cleaned. They were still a little damp, but they no longer reeked. The blood of the Mongolian cavalry colonel had faded from dark red to a dull pink on Scipio’s shirt. Nara had also provided them with a meal, and his men had had time for a little shut-eye before being called to this assembly. Scipio and Nara, however, had not slept, and the thought of how they’d filled the time instead made Scipio smile once again. He was tired, but for the first time in several days, he felt content.



Scipio saluted smartly as General Lepidus and Major Scaurus rode by. The General brought his horse to a halt and stared down his nose at the tall rifleman.

“Hrmph. Yes. Well done… Scipio, isn’t it?” Lepidus said. A little reluctantly, Scipio noted, but the General’s praise was all the more valuable because of how rarely and grudgingly it was given. “Major Scaurus tells me you’re to be granted a Captaincy soon.”

“So I’ve been led to understand, sir,” Scipio responded.

Lepidus just nodded. “Very well. Carry on.”

The General rode to the center of the square, but Major Scaurus climbed down from his horse and approached Scipio. The Major, Scipio noted, was wearing a grin beneath his moustaches, and his eyes were twinkling like those of a proud father.

“Well done indeed, Marcus,” Scaurus said. He then turned serious. “Did you lose any men?”

“Just one, sir,” Scipio replied. Two if I count Wei, he thought, but did not say.

Scaurus nodded. “Regrettable, but much better than expected, eh?” Scipio said nothing, knowing that the Major had expected all of his men to die on this mission, Scipio included. Then the Major’s eyes, which never missed anything, gazed for a moment at Scipio’s left hip. “Found yourself a new sword, I see.”

Scipio grinned. “Indeed, sir,” he said.

“May I?”

Scipio drew the weapon for the Major. He clasped the blade with his fingertips near the cross guard, careful to keep his fingers away from its razor-sharp edges, and allowed Scaurus to grasp the weapon’s hilt. The Major’s eyes widened a little as he took hold of the sabre and was moderately surprised by its weight. He held the sword upright and looked at the blade appraisingly. It was long and straight and sported a double-edge; combined with its weight, it was a deadly weapon—even a blow with the flat of the blade, if solidly struck, could crush a man’s skull.

“A fine blade,” Scaurus said. “I doubt this one will break in a fight. A Mongolian cavalry sabre, unless I miss my guess?”

“Yes, sir,” Scipio said.

Scaurus glanced at Scipio. He studied the big rifleman’s height and broad shoulders and reckoned silently that he could ably wield the sword even though it was designed to be used from the back of a horse.

“How did you get it, if you don’t mind my asking?” Scaurus inquired.

Scipio shrugged. “Found it lying in the street, sir,” he said, which was true enough.

“Did you now?” Scaurus said with a knowing grin. “Did you indeed. Very well… Captain Scipio,” Scaurus said as he handed the weapon back to the rifleman. “Good work. I’ll be in touch.” The Major climbed back on his horse, his grin still in evidence beneath his moustaches.

As Major Scaurus had a moment before, Scipio held the sword upright and studied it thoughtfully. The late afternoon sunlight shone off of the polished steel. Colonel Subotai’s sabre had killed Private Wei, but he was the last Roman who would fall under this blade. Scipio would use it against Rome’s enemies now; there was some poetic justice in that, which he thought Wei would have appreciated. It didn’t make up for the loss of the young man’s life, but it would do.

It was Scipio’s sabre.

[CCRunner]

Any updates coming soon?

Unfortunately not--I'm trying my hand at writing a novel for publication (at long last), so that's been sucking in all my creative juices lately. Sorry!

And so rests the story of the Princes of the Universe, just waiting for it's author to pick it up again

Hope you enjoyed it like I did!

[CCRunner]

The original story can be found here and the second part here. Note that the first thread is locked. I'd like to give special thanks to Birdjaguar at CFC for helping me by temporarily unlocking that thread so I could quote the posts.