“But Legate General, what will the governor say?” asked one of his subordinates.
“The governor will not take the field, and cannot remove me from command. I refuse to sacrifice my legion to let him play military officer,” Flavian stated firmly, broking no counter argument.
“That is all. We will marshal the men at dawn. Let our holy men make prayers to both the Christian god and the Old Gods. I have a feeling that divine intervention may be needed tomorrow. In the meantime, I shall see you at dawn. Goodnight gentlemen.” The assembled officers came to crisp attention, their salutes sharp. An aide lifted the tent flap and the general ducked out into the darkness. The tent emptied quickly, several officers murmuring to each other as they exited as well. Tribune Phyrsis caught Regillus’ eye and tilted his head to the side before slipping outside. Catching his point, Regillus glanced at the command table one last time before taking his leave.
The night was warm, but cooling fast, as might be expected for an early summer’s evening. The parade grounds of the Praesodium, or Garrison Fort, of Antioch were caked dry, the dirt having been pounded flat and hard by countless drilling feet. The tribune waited some distance away under one of the streetlamps. Regillus ambled over.
The tribune took out a pipe and tapped some smoking weed into it. Lighting a match, he slowly brought flame to pipe, before tossing the match into the air. It arced gracefully before extinguishing itself in a poof of dust.
“I am going to come out and say it, damn the consequences. Are you one of the governor’s lackeys?” the tribune asked. “I mean no disrespect, but I need to know this if we are going to be working together tomorrow.”
Although at first Regillus had felt stubborn anger at the question, he quickly relaxed.
“No, I've never met the governor, and only seen him from afar. I grew up with people who were always vying for small scraps of power. I would not willingly associate myself with anyone like that if I could avoid it. My family ‘taught’ me that.” He spoke from the heart, and hoped that the tribune believed him.
The man took a long puff on his pipe, releasing the smoke into the air. It drifted wanly in the non-existent breeze.
“I sure as Pluto hope you are telling the truth. I do not think that tomorrow will be as easy or bloodless as the general thinks. He has been in garrison too long. The IV is good, but they have not been tested in a while, and this may prove to be a very rude awakening. At least your cavalry should be more capable. Under no circumstances are you to go haring off after some Mongolian plot and leave my infantry out to dry, do you understand?”
“I thought you were a cavalry officer.”
“I am, praefectus, but I will be with the infantry tomorrow for the most part. Now, are you planning some foolhardly charge?”
“Of course not, sir. I have no desire to lead an insanely stupid charge against the Mongols,” Regillus replied. I have no pretensions of glory, nor am I an ambitious twit like the governor or Kretarus. That part went unsaid as Phrysis took another long drag on his pipe. He remained silent for a few moments. Regillus slapped away a buzzing insect.
“I had hoped that would be true. I was very impressed with your stalling defensive tactic during your retreat to Antioch. Keep that type of cool head under fire, and you may survive this siege. Better yet, you may get all of us out of here alive. That is…of course, if the general decides not to lead a charge himself.” He proffered his hand, pipe clasped between his teeth. Regillus shook it gratefully.
“Now get some rest. Does your family live in town?”
“Yes, my wife and son are living in the junior officer quarters down near the stables.”
“Ah, I remember when I had to bunk up with my fellow officers at your age. I also have no desire to relive it. Go home, make love to your wife, kiss your child, and sleep well. I shall see you bright and early,” the other man told him.
“What about yourself?”
“I need some time to mull over my thoughts. Good evening Praefectus.”
“Good evening, sir.” Regillus saluted. Phyrsis gave a half salute in return, clearly distracted. Regillus turned and began the long walk home.
The wind-up alarm clock jarred Regillus from his sleep. He pushed himself up off the pillow, wiping a lancet of drool off his face. Bleary eyed, he sat up in bed, eyes adjusting to the faint light in the room from under the doorway. He switched off the alarm, and rolled over. His arm encompassed his wife’s sleeping body.
Inhaling the faint smell of her perfume, he kissed her cheek and neck, trusting to long habit that it would awaken her. Soon enough, success.
Portia stirred slowly. He pulled her tousled blonde hair off her face. She gave a small sound, half yawn and half happy hum.
“I do so love the feel of your whiskers in the morning, dear husband,” she remarked coyly, her voice drowsy. Regillus kissed her neck again, and she turned her face towards him. It was a pretty face, heart shaped with mischievous lips and nose. Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she looked up at him. How does she look so gorgeous when waking up, when I feel like a blind ox?
“I have to go. It is time,” he whispered to her. He tried to hide the sadness from his voice. His wife could tell though, and pulled him in tightly. When she finally let him go, her eyes were glistening.
“I feel like I won’t see you again. You barely made it out last time.” He had told her all about his narrow escape from the Mongolians, although he did leave out the part about nearly dying in the process.
“I will see you again, I promise. But right now, I want you to take Marius and leave for the air terminal. Take the first flight out to anywhere, you understand? Hopefully you’ll be able to come back soon, but if something happens, go to your family in Athens. And send a message to our banker. He should have any amount of funds you might need.” She nodded, then turned over. She hates it when I see her cry.
He slid out of bed, pulled the covers up tight over her, and dressed in the near darkness. He bent down to kiss her one last time, then walked over to his son’s bed. He kissed the sleeping four-year old on the forehead, tucking the covers in before moving to depart. Standing at the doorway, he took one last look at his sleeping son and his wife.
“I will return. I love you too much to leave you.”
And with that, he left.
The walk to the assembly area was cool, the sun not yet adding heat to the cobblestone streets. Regillus stopped off at a bakery, grabbing a loaf of bread still steaming from the oven. It burnt his fingers slightly, then his tongue, but it was a small price to pay. Licking the last few crumbs up, he wiped his hands on his trousers before saluting the gate guards and officer of the watch.
Locals. Not real Legionnaires. He knew that the governor had called out the remainder of the local militia and garrison. The local equipment was pretty standard for a garrison: a single piece breastplate atop a red, quilted, long sleeve jerkin that covered the body down to the thighs, plus dark trousers and leather shoes. Armed with long spears and short stabbing swords, their large, oval scutum, or shields, remained similar, if not identical, to the original Roman design. Then again, if it is garrison equipment, it may not have been used since the first Roman troops arrived.
He was waved through without so much as a look at his documents. Not sure I like that, Regillus thought. The short walk along the cobblestone road ended abruptly with his arrival at the parade grounds. Pushing his way through the milling soldiers, he made his way towards a raised podium. By the gods, I hope there is not a speech.
Fortunately, the legate general seemed to have more intelligence than to waste time with a rousing battle speech. Several staff officers were on stage, directing the flow of men, machines, and supplies as best they could. Regillus approached the closest, using his rank to clear several minor functionaries directing the soldiers towards their assembly points.
“Ahh, Praefectus Regillus! You are right on schedule. Your men are currently marshalling here, at the garrison stables. They should b
e ready to move out as soon as you arrive.” The staff officer said in a rush, turning away to deal with another questioner after hastily pointing out the stables on a poorly printed map. As though I do not know the location of the stables. I was a scout cavalry officer not one day ago!
A few minutes later, he arrived at the stables, chest swelling to see none of the mass confusion and chaos from the plaza infecting his men. A junior officer approached him.
“Sir, Senior Decanus Antikos Etruscas.” He saluted sharply. The man was roughly his age, his close cropped hair light on his tanned face. Dark brown eyes studied him intently. “Welcome to the 8th Ala Syrianus.”
“Thank you for the welcome, Senior Decanus Etruscas. I accept with honor the appointment to commander of the 8th Syrian cataphract alae. Is my armor and equipment here? My old armor is not suitable to a cataphractarii charge.”
One side of his mouth lifting up slightly, the senior decanus nodded.
“Yes, sir. May I send an attendant to help you prepare?”
“Is it absolutely necessary? I know speed is of the essence.”
“Of course, sir. I’ll send two then.”
His armor was quickly brought before him. First came a long sleeve undershirt, followed by a short sleeve padded tunic. Then a layer of overlapping scale armor covering his chest, shoulders, and upper thighs was attached, the weight knocking some of the breath out of his body. Finally, iron greaves were buckled onto his shins, matching the tougher, steel-toed boots he now wore.
“Quite a bit heavier than I recall,” he joked slightly. The attendants made no comment, other than a hastily covered chuckle by the junior of the two. The older one placed a steal helmet on his head, scaled neck protection cool against his skin. Regillus thanked the men and returned to the senior decanus.
“Are you ready, sir?”
“Absolutely, Antikos. Please pass the word to the men that I have the highest confidence in their skills. We’ll need every ounce of that talent today.” The officer nodded, then turned back to his men. The same two attendants came forward to help Regillus onto his horse. A moment of awkward pushing and adjusting occurred, before Regillus was finally able to get comfortable. He turned to his men.
“Men of the 8th! We’ve only just met, but I plan for this to be a long relationship! Let us pray.” Several men closed their eyes, the others quiet as they listened.
“To the gods above, both of old and of new, watch over these men and keep them safe. May their lances strike true and their arrows always hit. In your names, we pray. Nika!” The men shouted the last part with their new commanding officer.
The 8th rode out to fame, glory, or whatever fate awaited them.
There will be much blood shed today, whether or not the general wants there to be. Covering his eyes from the sunlight, Praefectus Regillus looked over the advancing Mongol forces. His position to the east of the Roman lines gave him a vantage point of the whole area. The two miles between the river and road were full of Mongol horsemen, a ragged line of skirmishers firing on horseback. Behind them, more disciplined lines of lightly armored men rode in ranks, advancing at a slow walk. And behind them came Mongol infantry, a new, surprise occurrence that Regillus had not seen or heard about before.
“Sir, I did not know that Mongols used infantry,” Senior Decanus Etruscas commented.
“I am going to bet they only use them when required to take cities. Horses are not very good at climbing walls,” Regillus observed, falling back into the regular patterns and routines of his old unit, transplanted into this new one. Some small part of him hoped to make a new friend, or at least someone who could care less about his estrangement from the high and fancy Antiochian social circles. Perhaps the senior decanus was the man of the job.
“Do you think we’ll be able to defeat them, sir?” The man’s voice was doubtful.
“Can we defeat them? Yes, senior decanus, we can. Can we defeat them here, on an open field? Not without great difficulty, and with everything going right for us. We must see what the legate general chooses to do.” I pray retreat back behind those nice tall walls.
It was probably a vain hope. Around him, several other cavalry alae waited patiently for orders. Their forces blocked the road, which hugged the eastern mountains as it traveled down from the north. To their west, the Roman center and left were drawn up on the open farmland, the once man high crops trampled flat. Garrison repeaters formed a skirmish line, peppering the advancing Mongols with their steel quarrels. Behind them was a line of Syrian and garrison legionnaires. The legate general had brilliantly interspersed cohorts from each legion together so that each section would cling tightly to its neighbors. Yes, and hopefully prevent the garrison troops from fleeing at the first charge. Regillus thought sarcastically.
Lastly, the heavy cavalry of the Syrian IV was assembled behind the Roman infantry, ready to respond to any breakthrough or opportunity. Regillus could see the fluttering of General Flavian’s banner at the forefront of the cavalry forces. Around them, Roman artillery fired stones and repeater bolts into the masses of Mongol cavalry, but it was like throwing sand at the tide. Further west, both Roman airships moved ponderously towards the Mongolian flank, the occasional bolt or Greek fire container lancing out from the side of the warships.
For a moment, Regillus actually felt optimistic. Maybe they are not the all powerful force we assumed.
And that was when the Mongols made their move. From behind the ranks of infantry came large, hollow, booming sounds. Puffs of dirty white smoke drifted into the air.
“What was that?” Cries of alarm and confusion came from Regillus’ men.
Some type of projectile launched from the ground, sizzling in a wobbly line up towards the Roman airships. By the gods… The projectile exploded just before hitting the side of the airship, sending pieces into the thick canvas hull. Regillus pulled out his binoculars and slammed them to his eyes. Fiddling with the focus ring, he examined the results of the impact. Damn. The fabric was definitely shredded; great sheets billowing in the wind visible even from the far side of the battlefield as the air escaped the dirigible. Crewmen were already sliding down the hull in an attempt to staunch the flow of gas. The other missiles continued on their track, some rebounding off the hull of the deflating dirigible, some missing completely, erupting harmlessly beyond the stricken craft.
“Steady, steady!” Regillus ordered his men, motioning with his hands. He patted the horse to calm it, as it pranced nervously in the dirt.
More sounds and eruptions of smoke signaled the launch of other projectiles. At least ten launched upwards at the airship. The airship captain at least had the intelligence to turn his vessel away from the missiles. Engines churning, the airship managed to avoid many of the second wave launches. Explosions bracketed the hull, but the missiles seemed to do no damage to the thick wood and steel plating.
Unfortunately, several others had managed to explode near the gasbag, further damaging large portions of the canvas. The airship struggled onwards, attempting to pull out of range of the fearsome projectiles. They sort of look like what Engineer Monventus used during our skirmish with the Mongols. Regillus thought, watching the flight of yet another spread of missiles.
The second airship was fleeing as well, unwilling to get close to the ground-based Mongol defenses. The remaining flight shrieked off into the sky, some corkscrewing harmlessly to the ground on the far side of the river.
“There goes our air superiority. And some of our best weapons too.” I knew that so-called officer would flee at the first time of trouble. He sneered at the thought of the pompous Fleet Officer Kretarus cowering on his bridge. Then again, calling that political hack an ‘officer’ is being generous.
“Sir, I think we’ve got bigger problems than that.” The senior decanus shook his arm in haste, pointing to the field, diverting his attention away from the fleeing air fleet.
All along the front, the Mongols were advancing. Already, Regillus could see the Roman skirm
isher lines falling back to the main legion ranks.
“Tell the men we’ll have work soon enough,” he said grimly, replacing his binoculars in their case. “If the Mongols have any more surprises up their sleeves, we’d best get ready for a bloody day.”
As the space between the Roman and Mongolian centers continued to close, Regillus felt his heart beating faster. Minutes passed, but it felt like hours. Slowly, the Mongol horseman picked up speed, beginning their charge, but had yet to shelve their horsebows.
The entire Roman line gave a thunderous battle cry as they lowered their shields and prepared to receive the charge. Light cavalry against armored infantry backed up by spears and artillery? There is no way such veteran horsemen would actually attempt that! Regillus remembered how the Mongols had attacked back at the inn.
“It’s a trap. Those Mongol forces aren’t going to carry out their charge.”
“Sir?”
“That’s not how they fight! Their entire strategy is based on their history as nomadic steppe warriors. I remember the veterans talking about how our armies kept getting slaughtered by the Mongols until we could trap them against the river. In the middle of a driving rainstorm and using a rebel tribe as our allies. I doubt that any rainstorm is going to happen here to save us. Those riders will make pincushions out of our forces. This battle is already lost.”
The men around him looked uncomfortable. Several mutters of anger at their commander’s defeatism reached his ears.
And yet, they trailed off as the Mongol forces twisted and shifted, peppering the lines with seemingly unending volleys of arrows. Caught by surprise, the Romans ducked behind their shields, although the expert marksmanship and sheer amount of fire knocked holes in the thin, red line. They were now galloping away from the imperial forces, firing Parthian style over their shoulders.
Further to the rear, Regillus could see flags and standards swirling as reinforcements were ordered forward. Arranged in a checkerboard pattern behind the main line, reserve cohorts rushed men forward to fill the gaps. Even the cavalry seemed to be stirring, gradually forming up into a huge diamond formation centered on the general’s standard. He can’t be expecting that the Mongols will actually receive their charge…
Antioch Burns Page 3