like of which I’ve not seen before in Europa or beyond. Bloodier than we Norse. We generally leave people alive, but they kill for sport. I’m keeping my wits about me, I don’t mind telling you. I don’t sleep much.”
“And these are the people I shouldn’t massacre?”
“Nay,” said Bjarnason. “I don’t give a hoot about the Iroqua. Vile folk, but you’ll be out of their territory in a few more days, anyway. The people you shouldn’t kill are the next lot, the Cahokiani. Great builders, they are: longhouses, thatched roofs. Not the equals of the Norse great halls, but they could be with a tad more practice. And they build mounds of earth, too, wide and tall. And riverine harbors and irrigation canals. They’re like no people you’ve seen yet.”
“Do they have gold?” Marcellinus asked automatically, and almost laughed at himself for the question.
The Norseman shook his head. “We’ll not make our fortunes there. Furs and pretty shells. Aside from that it’s mostly stone and bone, wood and feathers. Especially feathers. For they’re fliers as well as runners and swimmers, you see.”
“We saw what their wings could do in Appalachia. It’s a fancy trick, but not one that leaves much of a dent on Roman steel.”
“You’ve not seen the best of what they can throw into the air,” said Bjarnason. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”
“But we can beat them,” Marcellinus said, and it wasn’t a question.
“Oh, aye, handily, should you choose to. But maybe you should consider the advantages of trade over pillage.” Bjarnason smiled ruefully. “And when a Norseman says that, you should probably listen.”
“We don’t need any shells. How much farther, Bjarnason?”
“To the city of mounds? As the crow flies and the legion marches? Six weeks.” The Norseman waggled his hand to show that his estimate was rough.
“Six?” Marcellinus said, appalled.
As the year wore on, Marcellinus was becoming uncomfortably aware of just how long this march was taking. He worked the dates in his head. The Ides of Julius had just passed. Six weeks further would take them well past the limit of how far west they could travel and still have any hope of making it back to the Chesapica before winter closed in. For a moment, his heart already felt the chill.
The mounted Norse scouts had made it to the city of mounds and back again in a couple of months. It had always been obvious that the Legion would take much longer. No one had expected it to take
this
long.
“You’re worried about supplies?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t be. They have better corn than you’ve seen so far, and soon ready for the harvest.”
Marcellinus looked wry. “Enough to feed the 33rd over a winter?”
“Enough to feed a city,” Bjarnason assured him. “Take the city and you take the food, too.”
He put the wine cup down and stretched. “I haven’t been into that city, mind. Can’t even get close. There’s no cover in the last stages, and I’ll not get far trying to disguise myself as one of them. But ten thousand people’s my guess.”
“If you’re wrong—” Marcellinus caught himself.
On their arrival at the Chesapica the weather had been surprisingly blustery and fierce for the latitude. If Marcellinus had to build a fortress and overwinter the 33rd out here in the desolate backcountry of Nova Hesperia, he would really have problems. The decimation of his troops from starvation and infighting would make their losses at the hands of the natives look paltry. Marcellinus could hardly expect the locals to feed his legion out of the goodness of their hearts.
Of course, if he had to turn around and slink back to the Chesapicawithout having found gold or achieved substantial military success conquering new territory for the Imperium, Marcellinus would have wasted the year. Hadrianus would not view that favorably.
He really had no choice. None at all.
They had to go on.
“I’m not wrong,” the scout
“And these are the people I shouldn’t massacre?”
“Nay,” said Bjarnason. “I don’t give a hoot about the Iroqua. Vile folk, but you’ll be out of their territory in a few more days, anyway. The people you shouldn’t kill are the next lot, the Cahokiani. Great builders, they are: longhouses, thatched roofs. Not the equals of the Norse great halls, but they could be with a tad more practice. And they build mounds of earth, too, wide and tall. And riverine harbors and irrigation canals. They’re like no people you’ve seen yet.”
“Do they have gold?” Marcellinus asked automatically, and almost laughed at himself for the question.
The Norseman shook his head. “We’ll not make our fortunes there. Furs and pretty shells. Aside from that it’s mostly stone and bone, wood and feathers. Especially feathers. For they’re fliers as well as runners and swimmers, you see.”
“We saw what their wings could do in Appalachia. It’s a fancy trick, but not one that leaves much of a dent on Roman steel.”
“You’ve not seen the best of what they can throw into the air,” said Bjarnason. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”
“But we can beat them,” Marcellinus said, and it wasn’t a question.
“Oh, aye, handily, should you choose to. But maybe you should consider the advantages of trade over pillage.” Bjarnason smiled ruefully. “And when a Norseman says that, you should probably listen.”
“We don’t need any shells. How much farther, Bjarnason?”
“To the city of mounds? As the crow flies and the legion marches? Six weeks.” The Norseman waggled his hand to show that his estimate was rough.
“Six?” Marcellinus said, appalled.
As the year wore on, Marcellinus was becoming uncomfortably aware of just how long this march was taking. He worked the dates in his head. The Ides of Julius had just passed. Six weeks further would take them well past the limit of how far west they could travel and still have any hope of making it back to the Chesapica before winter closed in. For a moment, his heart already felt the chill.
The mounted Norse scouts had made it to the city of mounds and back again in a couple of months. It had always been obvious that the Legion would take much longer. No one had expected it to take
this
long.
“You’re worried about supplies?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t be. They have better corn than you’ve seen so far, and soon ready for the harvest.”
Marcellinus looked wry. “Enough to feed the 33rd over a winter?”
“Enough to feed a city,” Bjarnason assured him. “Take the city and you take the food, too.”
He put the wine cup down and stretched. “I haven’t been into that city, mind. Can’t even get close. There’s no cover in the last stages, and I’ll not get far trying to disguise myself as one of them. But ten thousand people’s my guess.”
“If you’re wrong—” Marcellinus caught himself.
On their arrival at the Chesapica the weather had been surprisingly blustery and fierce for the latitude. If Marcellinus had to build a fortress and overwinter the 33rd out here in the desolate backcountry of Nova Hesperia, he would really have problems. The decimation of his troops from starvation and infighting would make their losses at the hands of the natives look paltry. Marcellinus could hardly expect the locals to feed his legion out of the goodness of their hearts.
Of course, if he had to turn around and slink back to the Chesapicawithout having found gold or achieved substantial military success conquering new territory for the Imperium, Marcellinus would have wasted the year. Hadrianus would not view that favorably.
He really had no choice. None at all.
They had to go on.
“I’m not wrong,” the scout
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