He turned to his subordinate. “Mobilize all our reserves and take five cohorts from the line. Tell the rest of the men to hold firm and spread out to fill the gaps. We’ll pick up the men as we march east,” he ordered. If the instructions confused the man, he gave no evidence as he quickly turned to send out runners to the correct cohorts.
Constantine turned back to the messenger. “You’re sure about this?” The man nodded, out of breath. “Very well, take this message to the VII Germania. They’ll need to assist us immediately. Beg, plead, whatever you need to do. Understand? Go!” The messenger galloped off again, mud and snow flying from his mount’s hooves.
“Why are we mobilizing a quarter of our remaining strength and pulling out of line, sir?” his subordinate, Hadrius, asked.
“It appears our general’s scouts didn’t test the ice on the right flank as well as we thought. The Nortlanders are coming across in droves and have attacked the IV Britannia. They were caught completely by surprise. We’ve got to help.”
“Isn’t that the job of the reserves?” Hadrius asked.
Constantine fixed him with an icy stare. “Hadrius, if I thought the reserve could get there in time, I wouldn’t be pulling out a quarter of our strength now, would I? But they won’t because they’re the slowest marchers, and I know that Commander Murtes will take the road instead of marching cross-country. And that will take just too damn long.” His tone permitted no further queries. Constantine looked to the right, where at the copse of trees and low hillocks hid the battle now developing off to the east. “Now get the men moving.”
Chapter 13
Graecus
Commander Lianus Graecus had lost his helmet somewhere in the fighting. He leaned heavily on his shield, trying to gather his strength. In his heart, he knew what was about to happen.
The IV Britannia was about to die.
The Nortlanders had crossed the “thinly” iced river that Graecus had assumed would shield their position. His cohorts, strung out in an effort to monitor the enemy, had been attacked piecemeal, and great gaps had opened in his once solid line of soldiery.
He uttered several vehement curses at “General” Minnicus and his so-called scouts. Curse that man. If I live long enough to get my hands on him . . . That imbecile probably doesn’t even know what’s happening. I wonder if his scouts even looked at this river.
The river, if it could be called that, had been nicknamed Little Viken because of its connection to the Viken River, a major west-east river that ran from the mountains of central Nortland to the sea.
“And he assured us it was frozen!” Graecus spat. His spittle was tinged red with blood. He could already feel the makings of a powerful bruise on his cheek, the result of a head butt some inventive Nortlander had tried to deliver. Graecus closed his eyes for a moment and saw in his mind’s eye the waves of barbarian tribesmen and berserkers crossing the river. He knew they were still down there, surging over its uncontested banks to overwhelm the entire right flank of the Roman army.
Although taken by surprise along both its flanks during the initial assault, the IV Britannia had held stubbornly, forcing the Nortlanders to overpower them with sheer numbers. Originally, the line of legionnaires had been assembled along the semi-frozen banks of the Little Viken, with the greatest concentration around the recently assembled bridge spanning the thin-iced river. The wooden bridge was wide enough to allow eight men to march abreast across the river, and represented both a possible attack route and a considerable death trap. Commander Graecus knew his business, and had positioned heavy repeaters and ballistae all along the river, even going so far as chopping down trees to build stable platforms and expand his firing lanes. The rest of the legion spread out from this strong central position.
Graecus had not anticipated needing to cover his flanks with a large force, and so his cohorts had been strung out along the river for about a mile and a half, which wound from southwest to northeast. His westernmost cohorts could communicate with the scout forces of the XIII Germania that occupied the ridge just over the river, while his easternmost ones were nearly into the great forestlands of Nortland.
The first indication that something was wrong came when a standard patrol failed to report in from the right flank. Graecus sent out a second, more heavily equipped patrol. Within an hour, they were back in camp, along with the remnants of five of his right flank cohorts. By then, it was already too late to counter the enemy incursions. The Nortlanders had already gained the southern bank of the Little Viken and were right on the heels of his heavily damaged cohorts.
The first half-hour of battle had been close, but surprise and numbers were on the Nortlanders’ side. They had pushed the Romans back all the way to the bridge, and his western flank was now under heavy attack, with the Nortlanders gaining the southern bank in half a dozen places.
Graecus had formed his line at a right angle. The cornerpiece of his defense was the recently dubbed “Fort Graecus”—a hastily built stronghold that blocked both the bridge and the riverbank. From this position his cohorts spread southward, trying to cover the length of the road that supplied them with reinforcements and supplies. His remaining cohorts were spread along the river to the west, trying to stop the mass of barbarians from surrounding his beleaguered legion.
Graecus stood on the dirt parapet of the fort that bore his name. His aide-de-camp and temporary standard-bearer, Kurlis Tritonis, stood next to him, his armor dented and bloodied, but still in one piece. Damned teenager still has energy, and here I am feeling every one of my forty-six years.
“Kurlis, do you think any of our messages have gotten through?”
“I’d say there’s a good chance, sir. We did send most of them while we were sure of the road.”
“And you took care of the senatora?” Regardless of the outcome here, Graecus did not want to be responsible for the death of a Roman senator. Female or not, she’s still one of the sharpest politicians I’ve ever met. And I’ve met many.
“Yes, sir, I sent her south about an hour ago with her bodyguards and an entire cohort. They’re under orders to get her to safety no matter what. I’m sure they’ll make it, sir.”
“You’re forever optimistic, Signifer. Now, if you please, raise our Eagle high so that the enemy may know where to spend their lives.” His aide hoisted the gilded golden eagle, sign of the legions of Rome for nearly two thousand years, up into the air. His legionnaires cheered as the howl of the Nortlanders rang again from the snow-covered forests, and their enemy charged into battle.
It was a full frontal assault. Withering fire from the Roman repeaters scythed down swathes of warriors. Ballistae chucked pots of Greek fire into the milling mass of men, and the landscape before the Roman positions steamed like fog on a fall day.
But onward the enemy came. They had assembled basic siege equipment, mantels to provide cover and ladders to scale the hastily built walls of the fort. Graecus urged his men to target the ladder carriers while the artillery knocked out the large siege shields that were being slowly, inexorably, pushed forward toward his position. A ballista scored a lucky hit and a mantel shredded under the force of a direct blast of gunpowder. Men went flying in all directions as the mantel’s hide-covered wood became a deadly weapon in its own right, bursting into a flurry of splinters as large as a man’s arm.
Graecus’ gaze swept over the once pristine field, now littered with decapitated men and broken bodies. If we hadn’t cut down those trees in the first place, they’d be all over us. But the fight seemed to have gone out of the Nortlanders. The few warriors who had reached the wall were quickly dispatched, and the rest fled back into the safety of the woods. Graecus released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Despite the cold, he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the cuff of his tunic sleeve. Finally, a chance to—
“Sir . . .”
He looke
d up to see the horror and frustration on his aide’s face as he handed over a message scroll.
“Yes?”
“A runner reports that they’ve broken through farther south. They’ve got some mecha-wolves in amongst our 12th and 17th Cohorts,” Tritonis reported, his tone grim and his face pinched.
The commander closed his eyes for a moment as he recalled the centurions of those cohorts. Decarus and Limones; they would not have gone down without a fight. Graecus opened his eyes. “Have all cohorts north of them peel right and form a rearguard. Fall back on my position. Is the wireless still working?”
“Yes sir, but our steam generator is almost out of fuel. We’ll have it for maybe a few more minutes at most,” Tritonis said apologetically.
“We can’t burn all this wood?” his commander asked incredulously, gesturing to the piles of chopped wood serving as a fort.
“No sir, something about fouling up the inner workings. I’m not sure of the details.” Tritonis gave a halfhearted shrug.
“Well then, send this message—do it yourself, personally, then return here. I don’t anticipate that we’ll have much time once the Nortlanders get through the rearguard.”
Saluting, Tritonis handed the Eagle standard over to one of the commander’s bodyguards and carefully accepted the envelope Graecus held out. “I’ll be back shortly, sir.”
While Tritonis was gone, Graecus set about reinforcing his southern positions. He ordered his strung out western cohorts to fall back as well. I figure I’ve got at least fifteen hundred men left. Although it was less than a quarter of his initial strength at the beginning of the day, it was still a deadly force.
Sure enough, the Nortland forces had enveloped the entire right flank of Graecus’ legion. His rearguard fought desperately, holding for as long as possible; when the carefully structured line collapsed, combat dissolved into a swirling melee, with Romans fighting back to back against the mass of Nortland attackers. The rearguard died hard.
But they still died.
With the few minutes provided by the death throes of his rearguard, Graecus scrambled to secure his now open flank. He threw his tired western cohorts into a hasty defensive line. “Grab whatever you can, build the defenses high. I want them to pay for every foot of ground!” Graecus exhorted his men as they overturned wagons, piled supplies, and dragged branches, rocks, even cooking pots and pans into ramshackle barricades. I wonder if Vulcan, god of craft and machine, has ever looked upon as insane a construct as ours, Graecus thought fleetingly as he raced to supervise the last of the defenses as they were manhandled into place.
By the gods, I hope this is good enough to stop what is coming, Graecus prayed. Deep down, he knew that it would not be enough.
He surveyed his surroundings one last time, giving orders to tweak the positions of his few remaining heavy artillery pieces. If only we still had our mechaniphants, we could do some real damage.
“You’re right there, sir. I’d love to see what one of those machines could do to these hordes we’re facing,” Tritonis said, climbing up to his position. Graecus hadn’t realized he had spoken aloud. “Sorry sir,” Tritonis added, sensing the brief, awkward pause. “Thought you might want to know that we did receive messages on the wireless just before it died. Elements of the XIII Germania and the VII Germania are en route this very second.” His voice contained traces of hope. Graecus figured it was best to let it survive. He knew that the relief columns would not be here for another hour, at the earliest. And they would be tired, outnumbered, and just as likely to be wiped out by the huge influx of Nortland war bands roaming both sides of the Little Viken now.
“Sir!” a lookout called to him. “Movement in the trees!”
Commander Graecus climbed higher up the barricade to get a better view. His legionnaires nodded to him. He was not the best commander, and he knew it. But he was not one of those disciplinarian types, and he had earned the respect of his men the old-fashioned way—by fighting for them and making sure he did his best to get them glory, loot, and a safe return home. He pulled out his spyglass and focused on the trees. Sunlight glinted off metal weapons as the Nortlanders gathered again for a final assault. He could hear shouts from the eastern wall as well. They must be coordinating their efforts this time.
Graecus turned back to his men, who stared up at him, perched on top of the barricade, as he spoke to them one last time. “Boys, it won’t be long now until we’re stuck in good and deep. Just remember: fight smart, fight hard, fight for the man next to you and the buddy behind you. Fight for vengeance and glory. But most of all, FIGHT. FOR. ROME!”
His men cheered and shouted. A few chanted, and others picked it up: “Rome. Rome. Rome. ROME. ROME. ROME!”
The Nortlanders had moved onto the field during the commander’s brief speech, pausing just out of repeater range. Graecus moved carefully back down from the barricades and ordered his repeaters up into position. “Wait for it . . .” His men tensed nervously. Heavy artillery creaked as it shifted position.
The Nortlanders marched into the open field as if guided by an unseen hand.
“Heavy artillery, open fire.” His ballista and heavy repeaters started their bloody work again, gouging great holes in the enemy line.
When the enemy had advanced another two hundred feet, running faster this time, Graecus gave his second order. “Repeaters, open fire. Prepare plumbatae.” Every last legionnaire who could throw the explosive-tipped plumbata had been assembled, and he was using up his entire stock in this one instance. No point in leaving anything in the supply wagons.
The smaller repeaters were less deadly, especially at greater range, but they were faster to reload. The amount of firepower was only limited by the time it took to reload the repeaters. The crossbow used the force from the launch of each bolt to slide the heavy-duty cord back down the stock to load another bolt via an ingenious device called the Agrippa repeater mechanism. Thanks to this, the field was now littered with dead.
Even so, the Nortlanders were barely two hundred feet away now. Graecus heard himself bellow, “Ready plumbatae!” He could literally feel the mass of men behind him moving in synchronized motion as they all prepared their weapons. One last time, they would cast defiance into the face of their enemy.
“Throw!”
Chapter 14
Octavia
Octavia heard the sounds of conflict as her horse and those of her bodyguard trotted within the square formation of her borrowed cohort. Tribune—make that Commander—Appius and Captain Alexandros had provided the ten mounted men forming her bodyguard; around them all quick-marched ninety crack legionnaires, most of whom had seen many winters of service in the name of the Emperor.
Leading them was veteran Centurion Piltus Orestis, a scarred battlefield survivor; canny, tough, and a strict disciplinarian. But he also led one of the IV Britannia’s best cohorts, if not the best, as he was wont to argue.
Octavia was certain that the man did not appreciate being sent off on an escort mission while his comrades in arms were dying to stall the surprise Nortland attack across the Little Viken. Conversely, she was certainly happy that she was not staying behind to fend off the invasion. She knew perfectly well that she would not be of use in a combat situation, and refused to play the role of heroine. For this, she thought, her bodyguard was extremely thankful.
The party moved quickly down the main road heading south, their goal to reach the protection of the VII Germania. The reserve was only about two miles away at a fast march, but Octavia was concerned about the sheer number of Nortland attackers who had flanked the III Britannia and were most likely blocking the road somewhere south.
Her escort had passed the last of the cohorts covering the southernmost point of Commander Graecus’ line about a half-hour ago, by her judgment, and the forest echoed with the sounds of battle. “Do you think the e
nemy are near to us, Centurion? I cannot seem to tell the distance, with all this forest cover,” she called to her escort leader.
The taciturn centurion, a permanent scowl evidently glued to his face, considered her question. Perhaps he’s just annoyed at the fact that he cannot ride a horse and yet is required to ride one in order to keep up and lead our escape, she thought, with just a small prick of pleasure at seeing the man adjust himself uncomfortably.
“They could be near or far, Senatora. If they’re close, we probably won’t live long enough to get away. If they’re far, we’ll try to get farther away.” Orestis turned away from her, killing any further attempt at conversation. She sighed and focused on the journey.
A rolling string of explosions suddenly erupted far behind her, accompanied by a marked intensity in the sounds of conflict. Orestis held up a gloved fist and the party paused; he turned his mount slowly to focus on the sounds. Legionnaires took advantage of the brief break to gulp water and wipe foreheads. Even in the cold winter air, the men sweated fiercely.
At least there isn’t a wind right now, which would really make this situation worse, Olivia thought. One of her bodyguards rode close to her, offering a thermos filled with tea that had somehow managed to remain lukewarm. Octavia nodded gratefully as the warm liquid helped to calm her grumbling belly and slake her thirst.
“Senatora! I think we need to move a bit faster. I’ve heard bugle calls sounding retreat. That is not a good sign,” the centurion called.
A sudden rustle at the edge of the road ahead of them caught most of the party’s attention. A Nortland scout actually fell into the roadway, apparently having tripped over some root or branch and then rolling over a steep embankment. The man dusted himself off and turned, staring wide-eyed at the party of Romans before him, who stared back, equally surprised at his sudden appearance.
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