The Tiger’s Wrath (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 5)

by Marc Edelheit

  It was something he thought worthy of a moment’s hesitation and reflection. Stiger glanced up at the sky and his thoughts went to his god. Normally, he would have taken a moment to say a silent prayer before action, but given the circumstances, he felt that would not have been appropriate. He glanced over at Salt and Arnold.

  “Gentlemen, shall we take a moment to pray?” Stiger asked.

  Without hesitation, Salt bowed his head, as did Arnold.

  “High Father,” Stiger said softly, bowing his head and closing his eyes, “lead us to victory this day. Spare as many of our men as possible from death, dismemberment, and injury. Give us the strength to see through what must be done, to carry forth your will, your holy standard, and break this army before us. Harden the men’s arms and hearts to their duty.” Stiger paused a heartbeat. He’d never been one for praying aloud but felt he’d said enough. The High Father would get his meaning. “Through this legion, may your will in this world be done.”

  With those last words, Stiger felt his connection to the High Father grow heated, warming him against the cold. Startled, he opened his eyes, blinking rapidly. The sensation faded, and then passed altogether. Had he imagined it?

  No. He hadn’t.

  The High Father had answered his prayer. The great god was with them. Stiger was heartened by that.

  “Amen,” Arnold said.

  “I believe it time, sir,” Salt said. “What are your orders?”

  Behind him, almost hidden in the darkness, sat Dog. The animal had returned an hour ago as the legion was moving into position. Dog let loose a low whine. Stiger spared the animal a brief glance and then looked over at Salt.

  Salt was right. It was time.

  There was no sense in delaying things further. Doing so would increase the chance of discovery.

  “Would you kindly give the order for the attack to go forward?” Stiger asked, though both of them knew it was an order.

  “I would be honored, sir.” The prefect turned toward the auxiliary with the bow. The man held an unlit fire arrow in his other hand. Snow had been shoveled and built up around the fire, to hide the light from the enemy.

  “Give the signal,” Salt ordered, his voice almost as harsh as it was hard. “Shoot the bloody arrow.”

  The auxiliary immediately stuck the tip of the arrow into the fire. He waited a moment for it to catch. Then, he quickly nocked it, raised the bow skyward toward the enemy’s camp, and loosed.

  The arrow was a brilliant dart of light as it streaked across the ever-brightening sky. It left a thin stream of smoke to mark its passage. Stiger tracked the missile with his eyes as it arced upward and then began to fall, until it hit the ground, right next to one of the sentry fires. The sentry had been sitting on a felled log, with his back to the forest. He jumped up, clearly startled.

  At first, nothing happened, then Stiger heard a shout of alarm from the sentry. It was picked up by others. A heartbeat later, an indistinct shout rang out from Stiger’s right. It was clearly an order. Several heartbeats later, the sound of hundreds of bows twanged. A wave of arrows, making a hissing sound, arced up into the air.

  The arrows slammed down into the enemy’s encampment, a deadly hail of iron-tipped rain. There were more shouts of alarm, exclamations, oaths, and agonized screams of pain as the arrows undoubtedly tore through tent fabric to strike the men within.

  Another hissing volley followed the first, followed rapidly by a third.

  Stiger stood there with Salt and Arnold. The three of them silently watched the drama unfold. Stiger knew he should be feeling elation, for it was clear the enemy had been caught completely by surprise.

  Instead, he felt somewhat helpless and more than a little useless. There was not much more that he could do. When he gave the order to advance, the rest would be up to his cohort commanders, men like Sabinus, whom he had complete faith in. But that still did not change how he felt. He had planned and done all he could. The rest was now in the hands of others, and Stiger found that feeling…unsatisfactory.

  Two more volleys arced out into the darkness. The enemy’s camp was a riot of confusion. Men emerged from tents and ran about in a muddled cacophony of shouting and screaming. Officers were undoubtedly attempting to establish some sort of order, but the confusion was just too great. It was more than Stiger had expected, could have hoped for.

  His orders had called for several more volleys before his heavy infantry started forward and stormed the camp. Stiger had wanted to instill as much chaos as possible before launching the main attack. However, the enemy’s camp was already in a state of extreme chaos. He did not think it could get much more confused. Additional volleys would not change that. If anything, he considered, the enemy might become more organized as officers managed to exert control and rally their men to the defense.

  “I think that’s enough softening up,” Stiger said to Salt. “Time to send the infantry forward.”

  “Are you certain, sir?” Salt asked with a glance over at him. “Our archers are doing plenty of damage. We could keep it up a little longer, inflict more casualties on them.”

  “I do not believe it will change matters much, other than to give the enemy a chance to rally a defense,” Stiger said. “Sound the advance.”

  “Yes, sir,” Salt said and then turned to look back at the same auxiliary who had fired the arrow. The man had slung his bow and held a horn poised near his lips. He stood ready and waiting. “Sound the call to advance.”

  The auxiliary raised the horn to his lips and blew one short blast, followed by two long ones. He paused to take a deep breath and repeated the call a second time. The horn cut over the noise, and for a single brief moment, there was near silence.

  Then, all along Stiger’s line, harsh orders were shouted. This was followed by a series of massed shouts as the cohorts in individual block-like formations began emerging from the cover of the trees. One cohort in the gloom began hammering their swords upon the insides of their shields in a steady beat. It was rapidly picked up by the entire legion. The sound of it seemed to vibrate the very air.

  A solid block of men, at least six ranks deep, came into view from the trees on the right side of the hill. Standard-bearers marched to the front, with the cohort commander in the lead. He drew his sword, waved it above his head for his men to see, and shouted something Stiger could not make out.

  A moment later, on Stiger’s left, a second block of men appeared. This was First Cohort. Second Cohort was the formation on the right. Stiger watched, feeling pride as his legion fully emerged from the tree line and began making their way toward the enemy.

  There was no heedless charge toward the enemy’s camp, no headlong rush, just a measured pace no greater than a leisurely walk, with the archers following close behind. To have charged forward through the fresh snow in a headlong rush would have quickly exhausted the men. Worse, each cohort would have lost its cohesion and organization, which would lead to each and every man fighting on his own, as an individual. So, the advance was slow, steady, and measured, just as it should have been. The legion would strike the enemy as a unified force.

  “Steady, boys,” Sabinus shouted. He had not yet drawn his sword. “Slow and steady. Watch your footing and keep ranks. There’s no sense in rushing. We will get there when we get there and not before.”

  Off to Stiger’s right, where the encampment disappeared into the trees, the clash of arms rang out, as did screams and cries. The right flank was Third Cohort’s responsibility, along with elements of the auxiliary cohorts’ light infantry and Stiger’s old company, the Eighty-Fifth. Quintus commanded the forces assigned to the right.

  The sound of the fighting seemed to increase the panic and confusion to Stiger’s front. It was what Stiger wanted to see. A panicked enemy was one who would not fight as effectively. The officers would have a very difficult time organizing a solid defense.

  That said, some of the enemy had begun to form a line along the edge of camp, facing outward toward
the legion. It was a pathetically thin line, but with every passing heartbeat more of the enemy joined the growing defense. Officers and sergeants moved amongst them, shouting and calling out orders, working frantically to pull the line together in time to meet the legion, which was just yards away. Many of the men joining the defensive line appeared to be armed only with sword or spear. They were wearing tunics and, for the most part, had not had time to don their armor.

  The battering of sword and shield by legionaries was an ominous thunk, thunk, thunk as they closed on the enemy. Stiger was sure the sound of it was incredibly intimidating, as was the sight of the legion closing in.

  As planned, the cohorts paused almost at the boundary of the enemy’s camp, just ten yards short. They came together, dressed themselves so that the legion’s battle formation was one unbroken line, straight, organized, and six ranks deep. Behind them, the archers had moved forward. They loosed another deadly volley that arced up over the heads of the legionaries before crashing down in the enemy’s midst. More screams rang out as the iron-tipped missiles took their toll.

  Dozens of skirmishers carrying slings were spread out just in advance of the legion. As rapidly as they could, they were using them to deadly effect, firing the lead bullets into the line the enemy was forming. From the hilltop, Stiger could hear the distinct whirring and cracking of the slingers, who were doing their best to sow confusion amongst the enemy ranks, even as another volley of arrows rained down.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Severus said.

  Stiger looked over at his tribune.

  “A runner just came in from Third Cohort,” Severus said. “They have pushed their way into the camp on the right, with limited resistance so far. Centurion Quintus states the enemy are falling back before his line.”

  Stiger turned his gaze to the right, where the enemy’s camp disappeared into the trees. As he did, a wall of infantry from Third Cohort came into view, emerging from the trees. It seemed the enemy were fleeing before them. More important, Stiger noted that Quintus had kept the integrity of his line as he advanced through that portion of the camp.

  “Very good,” Stiger said. “My compliments to Centurion Quintus. Advise him the enemy’s center is forming a line. He is to continue to push forward and break any resistance that coalesces to his front.”

  “Yes, sir,” Severus said and saluted, then stepped away toward the messengers.

  Sabinus, standing to the front of First Cohort, gave an order, which, over the din of chaos, was impossible for Stiger to hear. However, the legionaries heard, and the junior centurions passed along the order.

  The legion’s front rank took a step forward. Javelins were readied. There was a pause before another order was called out and the javelins were released. Like a wave, they arced up into the air. The missiles seemed to hang suspended for a heartbeat. Then, they crashed down with a clatter, slamming into the enemy’s line. Those few with shields held them up for protection. The enemy seemed to shiver under the impact of the volley, for it had been exceptionally well thrown. Soldiers fell by the score.

  “Draw swords,” Sabinus hollered in a parade-ground voice only a veteran centurion could manage.

  The order was repeated up and down the line. Swords were pulled out and shields raised. Sabinus lifted his sword above his head and then brought it down in a slashing motion, ending with it pointing toward the enemy.

  “Advance!”

  The entire line stepped off toward the enemy. One measured step after another brought them closer as the heartbeats ticked away. Additional orders were shouted and the shields came up, locking together in an unbroken wall. Swords were held at the ready. The last few yards between the two lines seemed almost painfully slow as Stiger watched the armored wall of men move forward toward the enemy.

  Several arrows were fired from the camp. Stiger saw one of his men fall out of the line, clearly injured. He staggered several steps, attempting to keep up with his comrades. After a moment, he dropped both his sword and shield. He held his thigh, which an arrow had gone clean through. Then he fell to the ground. The legionary writhed in agony on the trampled snow as his comrades in the ranks behind stepped over and around him, then left him behind, his blood darkening the snow.

  Stiger found he’d balled his fists. He forced himself to open his hands and relax. While he stood back and watched from a safe distance, it was an incredibly painful experience to send men into battle. He wanted to be with them, on the line, helping them go forward. It was unfair he could not share in the danger, the risk, but someone needed to command.

  “This is always the most difficult part,” Salt said, with a glance over at Stiger. “When I was promoted from senior centurion to camp prefect, I found it difficult to stand by and watch as other men went into battle. My job was to command, to fight only when it became desperate or an example needed to be made. Even now, after all these years, I am still not fully accustomed to it.”

  “I find it no less maddening,” Stiger admitted.

  “As you should, sir,” Salt said. “I’d be worried were it not so.”

  A moment later, the two lines came together. There was a loud clash as the first rank of the legion met the enemy. Thin or not, the enemy’s defensive line clearly numbered several thousand men. The clash of arms beat on the air, as did shouts, screams, cries, and orders being called. The enemy’s line was not a long one, which meant along the flanks of it, unobstructed, Stiger’s line continued to advance deeper into the enemy’s camp, which was full of confusion.

  One of the cohorts on the right, without any organized enemy to their front, came to an orderly halt. The officer in front—Stiger could not make out who it was in the early morning gloom—stepped out before his men. He turned, faced his men, and shouted something. The officer pointed his sword toward the enemy’s line. The cohort began moving again, but instead of continuing to advance forward, as it had been moments before, it began a wheeling movement, swinging around like a door closing upon the enemy’s flank.

  Stiger applauded the initiative. It was why the legion was broken into cohorts and why there were senior centurions. This allowed portions of the legion, upon the cohort commander’s own initiative, to react to battlefield conditions and make adjustments they felt needed.

  The movement took time and to Stiger seemed almost painfully slow. But it was well executed, and when the cohort’s movement was brought home, it began to push back the enemy’s line, curving it backward at that point. The enemy’s defensive line was now being pressured not only from the front, but also from the flank. Exerting immense pressure, the cohort began the process of rolling up the right flank.

  “Sir,” Salt said and pointed off to the right. “Look there. Some of the enemy are making a break for it.”

  Stiger saw a stream of disorganized people running off to the right, on the far side of the encampment and farther back than where Third Cohort was. The intention was clear. They were fleeing, trying to make it around the legion’s flank and to the safety of the forest.

  “Severus,” Stiger called back.

  The tribune stepped over.

  “See that bunch fleeing off to the right?” Stiger pointed.

  “Yes, sir,” Severus said.

  “Send a runner to the right flank,” Stiger said, and used his hand to show what he wanted. He understood that by the time the runner got there, and Third Cohort could react, it might be too late to catch a good number of them, but perhaps he could block more from escaping. “Tell Quintus I want him to pick up the pace, double-time it, and swing around to block the enemy from fleeing, basically put his cohort in their way. They are to execute that maneuver with all possible haste and cut those bastards off. I want to bag as many as we can. Got it?”

  “Understood, sir,” Severus said and jogged off, calling to a messenger.

  “I would say,” Salt said, with a nod toward the fleeing enemy, “that’s a very encouraging sign.”

  “Agreed. However, there are plenty still resist
ing,” Stiger said, watching the struggle of the line to his front. The legionary cohorts had continued their advance, even after they had come into direct contact with the enemy’s hastily organized line. The enemy was equipped with whatever weapon was close at hand. Very few wore any armor at all, though a good number carried shields. The fighting was hard and bitter. And yet, against Stiger’s heavy infantry, who were fully equipped and better trained, the enemy stood no real chance of success.

  Stiger sensed victory was at hand. The enemy would not stand long. As poorly equipped as they were, how could they? He knew it, could feel it, could taste it. Victory was his!

  “Severus?” Stiger called.

  “Sir?” Severus stepped back over.

  “Dispatch messengers to all cohort commanders,” Stiger said. “Remind them that the enemy’s supplies are to be taken intact. That includes all wagons, carts, tents, mules…there is to be no fire, no destruction, no looting. Reinforce my standing orders, will you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Severus said. “I will get right on that.”

  “Thank you.”

  Severus stepped away toward the messengers.

  Stiger turned his attention back to the battle. The legion had pushed and shoved their way forward. Behind them, bodies littered the ground. Stiger was pleased to see that most of the wounded and dead did not appear to be from the legion. His boys were slaughtering the enemy, and badly too.

  The sound of the fight increased in tempo and seemed to abruptly become more intense. Stiger studied the line. The enemy was attempting to hold firm. For a moment, they seemed to hold their ground and push back against the legion. Then, the center of his line made a massive, unified push, shoving the enemy roughly back.

  It was an incredible effort and had been well made. The enemy began to surrender ground, yards at a time now, instead of just feet, fighting their way backward into their camp. The number of men attempting to flee on the right side had grown to a virtual flood as more sought escape.