“Ah. I can see the weapons. Like our specialist auxiliaries. You did tell me much of this before—”
“It always helps to see it for yourself, doesn’t it, sir?”
“Indeed it does. The central units seem to have a more standard weapons kit—clubs, axes.”
“They call the axes chambis. Some have whips that they call chacnacs. Those lads are probably huamincas. Veterans, specialist soldiers—not mitimacs—based near Hanan Cuzco, or maybe Hurin Cuzco, or at any rate at the feet of the hubs.”
“All right. But still they don’t fight—we’ll run out of light at this rate.”
“Sir, it might just be that our trick is working. If the girls have managed to create some kind of rumpus up in Cuzco, the top levels of command are going to be distracted, if not paralyzed.”
“Yes. I have a feeling that thinking for yourself is even less welcome in the Inca setup than it is in the Roman.”
“Also they like their rituals. Before a battle they generally have a couple of days of sacrifices, fasting. We haven’t given them a chance to do that.”
“I’ll send a note of apology on behalf of the Emperor.”
“I know how to get them going, sir.” It was Marcus Vinius, stepping tentatively from his second rank through to the front.
“Marcus Vinius! Good of you to wake up and join the party.”
“Sorry about that, sir. But I was having this lovely dream. I had this anti woman in my arms, slippery as a snake she was, and then—”
“All right, soldier,” snapped Orgilius. “Get to the point. What are you doing stepping out of your rank?”
“Told you, sir. I know how to get those Incas mad.” He went to the front of the ridge, set down his sword and shield—and lifted up his tunic, exposing bare legs above the strapping of his boots. “Hey! Pretty boys! Here’s what I think of you!” He pranced up and down, flashing his legs and pulling his tongue, and the men behind him hooted and jeered.
Orgilius grinned. “Actually he’s right, sir. That’s a grievous insult to any Inca.”
And, indeed, Quintus saw that Marcus’s antics were evoking a response from the Incas. Some of the soldiers, and one or two of the command team, were staring, pointing at the Romans. He rubbed his chin. “Well, Achilles had his heel… All right, Marcus Vinius, back to your rank. Now then, front rank, shields and weapons down on the ground; you saw the man…” He grabbed his own tunic. “Follow my lead. Now!”
The entire front rank bared their legs and capered, while their comrades in the rear ranks rattled their swords on their shields, and yelled abuse in whatever Quechua words they knew. Only Orgilius, with his eagle standard on its staff beside him, stood back, laughing with the rest.
It seemed no time at all before the Incas’ clay trumpets began to be blown, their sound like the voices of monsters drifting across the broad valley.
Quintus picked up his shield and sword. “That’s it, lads. Come at us in a rush, with your blood up, and your commanders already uncertain of themselves and now itching at the humiliation… Well done, Marcus Vinius, well done—”
“Sir!” snapped Orgilius. “Missiles on the way!”
Without waiting to see for himself, Quintus stepped back into the front rank. “Close ranks! Shields up! Come on, you slugs, move, move!”
He heard the hoarse voice of Scorpus, his field optio, yelling for the back rows to get into formation. Soon it was done—there was a roof of interlocked shields over the Romans’ heads, and a wall before them.
Quintus crouched to see out. The missiles were arrows coming from the right, and stones from the left, for now falling short. He called over to Orgilius, “So they’re sending in their auxiliaries first. Archers and slingshots—”
“The antis and the Wanka, sir.”
“Just what I’d have done, if I had any.”
The mood had changed in heartbeats. Nobody was laughing now, nobody posturing. The men huddled determinedly under their wooden shields, each looking to his companions for mutual aid. Quintus heard one man noisily vomiting, and that was a good sign; that was normal too. He glanced out again. “They’re closing… ”
Now the projectiles fell on the shields, clattering, battering. The stones from the slings were a harmless hail, though they made you keep your shield up, but the arrows were heavier, and came from a greater height. To Quintus, holding up his own shield, it felt like each landed with a blow like a punch to his shield-bearing arm. The shields had been the best he could get made at the ayllu, but they were only wood, and some of the arrows in the storm that fell found a weak spot, or a gap in the wall. He heard the ghastly, meaty sound of arrows hitting flesh, and men screamed and fell—but the ranks closed up immediately to close the gap. Flowing like oil, he saw with approval, glancing back, just like oil.
“The auxiliaries have stopped advancing, sir,” Orgilius called through the noise. “Here come the infantry, the veterans, right up the slope toward us. But the auxiliaries are keeping up the fire.”
“Then we’ll have to fight with shields raised,” Quintus yelled back. “Hear that, you men? We’ve trained for this; you all know what to do.”
“Just as well old Titus Valerius isn’t here, though, sir,” called Marcus Vinius. “With that one arm of his. You couldn’t even strap a shield to his stump. Why, he’d be better off fixing it to his—”
“All right, Marcus,” Quintus snapped, huddling under his own shield, his arm rapidly tiring as the pelting of arrows continued. “Save the jokes for the Incas when we have them on the run.”
“Right you are, sir—”
“The huamincas are closing,” Orgilius yelled. “Almost in range.”
Quintus shouted, “Front rank, ready. Make every blow count, men; there’s more of them than us—for now! But remember, aim to injure, not to kill. Injure, don’t kill…”
That was a hard command for any experienced legionary to absorb—and that was why the men’s precious pila, which killed from a distance, had been banned for this encounter—but Quintus, even as he had prepared for this clash, had been thinking of the longer term, of a time when he would need to argue for mercy for his legionaries, who, after all, were never going to leave this place, whatever the outcome of the battle. If they could show restraint now, they might be shown tolerance in the future.
And here came the Incas, at last.
“Advance!” yelled Orgilius. “Front rank advance, advance!”
With the rest of the front line, Quintus raised his shield so he could see, and he ran down the slope with the rest of the front rank of the Romans, twenty or thirty paces, shields lowered. They slammed into the lead Inca warriors. Their sheer momentum and the advantage of height helped the Romans halt the Inca charge, and even push their foe backward down the hill, back into their own ranks, which turned into a confused crowd of struggling men.
The fight closed up in a static line, a bloody friction.
Trying to keep his shield in the air against the arrows and slingshot stones that still flew, Quintus hacked with his gladio at the man in front of him, aiming for the bare legs under the armored tunic. He struck flesh and the man fell—but another took his place, standing on the torso of his still-alive comrade, and Quintus found himself parrying blows from a long-handled axe with his sword. The Incas had whips, too, and the crack of one such weapon caught him across the back. But the trick was to step inside the arc of the whip so it became useless, and to close with the man himself.