Etruscas lowered his spyglass.
“Is the general about to lead a cavalry charge, sir?”
“Yes, and we better start making preparations to cover it from our flank.” Regillus quickly sketched out some orders, and had several of his cohorts already moving before the semaphore system operator sent a messenger over.
“It’s as you said, sir. The tribune is ordering us forward.”
“Indeed, he has no choice. Without our flankers, the charge will be surrounded and cut off inside a half hour. With them, he might last out the hour. That is, until we are overrun and our forces trapped against our own walls or the mountains,” Regillus stated harshly.
“All to satisfy the honor and tradition of our leadership.” He filled his voice with scorn. All the anger and frustration he had felt, the years of suffering under his parents’ and brothers’ torment came welling up. The young officer clenched his fist. Why can’t we learn to change how we fight? To change how we deal with this? How many more young men must die to satisfy old men’s need for honor?
It was a thought that had been considered by generations of younger men; before age and experience turned them into the very thing they had so rebelled against in their youth.
“Sir?” Etruscas interrupted. “The Mongols are moving against the flank as well.”
Tearing his attention away from the drama unfolding in the center, he focused on the situation at hand.
“Order skirmishers forward, infantry in Omega formation.” Ranks of pila-armed legionnaires marched forward; opening their ranks to allow men armed with repeater crossbows through. Enemy outriders were already beginning their harassing fire, no doubt attempting to infuriate the Roman flank commander into making rash moves. Regillus turned to stare back at the tribune, safely ensconced behind his infantry forces to the rear.
Phyrsis finally mounted his horse, his aide waving a signal flag at Regillus’ forward command party. Adrenaline pounding in his veins, Regillus gripped the reins and spurred his horse. The rest of the Roman line advanced at a slow march, his light cavalry forces pushing around the flanks to support the infantry’s advance. Mongol skirmishers raced back and forth, spattering the legionnaires with arrows. The infantry marched on, studiously ignoring the light missile fire.
As they approached a rise in the road, Regillus ordered a stop.
“Eliminate those riders,” he ordered. “I don’t want anyone fighting us for the hilltop. I want to own it.” The message was quickly passed down, and a rank of repeater crossbows stepped forward from the line. As they trotted towards the skirmishers, the tribesmen pulled their horses around and took aim at the crossbowmen. The legionnaires went down on one knee and took aim. Other legionnaires stood by to cover the crossbowmen with their shields when they needed to reload. Their bolts, shorter ranged than the horsebows or long bows, packed a punch, and it was not long before several empty steppe ponies were galloping for the rear, soon joined by their still mounted comrades.
“Good, continue the advance as the tribune ordered.” Etruscas grunted an affirmative. As the infantry took the hill, Regillus pulled his cavalry forces to the west, aiming to support the movements of the center. To the west, Legate General Flavian’s legionnaires advanced as well, cohorts opening large gaps in the line as the cavalry poured through. Opposite them, the Mongols continued to mill around, their light cavalry creating a scene of apprehension and confusion at the advance of the heavy cataphractii cavalry.
Regillus gritted his teeth. It was going to be a long day.
Day Three: A Disaster in the Making
“Hold the line!” Regillus screamed, using the flat of his sword to beat at the men trying to flee back into the city. The clamor of battle surrounded the small salient of Romans holding the northern gate. Ballistae and scorpion fire tore down from the forty-foot high walls, shredding rank upon rank of Mongol cavalrymen.
It mattered little, for the enemy’s forces were seemingly endless. They had replaced the losses from the previous day’s battle in record time, throwing fresh troops against the exhausted Roman defenders. The half circle of legionnaires and dismounted cataphractarii fought shoulder to shoulder, stalling the attackers long enough to allow as many fleeing troops into the city as possible. Just inside the gate, the city militia had finally assembled, their formation shaky as they watched the carnage unfolding outside the gates.
“Preafectus! Fall back and take charge of the men inside the city. We’ll keep them busy out here! The gates cannot fall. Do you understand? The gates cannot fall!” Tribune Phyrsis croaked at him. Stabbing his sword into the ground, the officer took the last swig from his canteen.
“I will use the last of our cataphractarii to buy you some time. Shut the gates.”
“But, sir! We have to save everyone we can!”
“I have faith in your leadership. No one will listen to a former cavalryman. But they might listen to you because of your family.” He looked at Regillus. “Shut the gods cursed gates, Praefectus, that’s an order. You cannot save us all. You have a family. I do not. You have your orders, legionnaire. Defend the city.”
Sheathing his sword, Regillus came to a salute, as crisp as he could make it. Fist to chest, he felt his heart swell with pride. This was a man worth his respect. The tribune mounted his horse, which headed a wedge of fifty cataphractarii forming up in the long tunnel of the gatehouse. He grasped his konton, the heavy lance handed to him by a wounded legionnaire.
“Save Antiochia, Praefectus. You are the only remaining officer from the IV Syrian alive. The survivors will need someone to keep them fighting until the other legions can arrive.”
Nodding numbly, Regillus returned to the line of men holding back the Mongolian infantry. Pulling his sword, he positioned himself next to the eagle standard of the IV Syrian, the rallying point that was the focus of the salient.
“Stand ready to fall back to the gate!” he shouted, fighting to be heard over the roar of combat. Regillus turned to look at Phyrsis. The armored warhorses stamped and pawed at the ground. Finally, Phyrsis lifted his clasped fist. Cornices blew, and the cavalry rode down the tunnel, gaining speed as they raced along the cobblestones.
“Wait for it… form gap now!” Regillus shouted to the men. The ragged Roman line split in two, and the Mongolian infantry blasted into the gap, just in time to be met by the powerful wedge of heavily armed lancers. Men were spitted upon the long spears, the heavily barbed warhorses trampling the attackers beneath them. Reeling in shock, the lightly armed enemy panicked, throwing down weapons and turning their backs on the rampaging cataphractarii.
“Fall back! To the gate!” Regillus turned and ran, urging the other Roman defenders back as well. The pressure on the line had eased, and the Romans moved quickly, ignoring their exhaustion. Small knots of Romans continued to battle, oblivious to his orders or unable to break free of their attackers.
He was in the tunnel now. The remaining legionnaires and dismounted cataphractarii formed a rough line across the opening, wide enough to accommodate three wagons. Regillus turned to watch the last charge of Tribune Phrysis. The initial impact of the charge had thrown back the first wave of Mongolian infantry, scattering them and causing them to flee. But the enemy simply sent forward more men, sacrificing ten soldiers to bring down one cataphractarii. They swarmed, stabbing with their short spears, wearing down the lancers.
Regillus opened a speaking tube that led up to the main gate control.
“Prepare to drop portcullis and close gates.”
“There are still men fighting outsid-”
“Soldier, listen to me! I am Praefectus Alae Regillus, last commanding officer of the IV Syrian. Do as I say, or I will personally kill you before the Mongols. Do you understand?” Regillus shouted into the speakertube. There was silence from the other end, then a different voice came back.
“This is Watch Officer Hadrianus, please confirm your identity.”
Regillus paused in his reply, distracted by the death of
the last few cataphractarii. Phyrsis was no longer visible. The sally had saved most of the defenders; everyone else was either dead or trapped beyond reach of the gates. Snapping his attention back to the speakertube, Regillus mustered every last amount of authority he could muster.
“Drop the portcullis, or we are all dead! You hear me? Do it now!” Regillus ordered the Watch Officer. The last Romans scrambled past the hastily assembled defensive line, Mongolian troops hot on their heels. With a clattering, two steel portcullises slid out of the ceiling, slamming into the ground on both sides of the charging nomads. The trapped Mongolians crashed against the barricade, screaming and shouting hatred at their opponents. From hidden murder holes came a cascade of boiling oil, which burned its way through armor, fabric, and skin. With the Mongol vanguard slaughtered, Regillus ordered his men back, shutting and barricading each set of doors behind them. As each heavy steel bar slammed down, Regillus felt slightly more secure.
Finally, the praefectus and his men emerged into the harsh morning sunlight of the entry courtyard. All around them lay wounded and dead soldiers. Many civilians and medical personnel ran here and there, trying to assist the causalities.
An officer ran out of the sally port of the guardhouse towards the bloodied rearguard survivors.
“You there! Watch Officer! Are you in charge of the gatehouse?”
“I’m not sure, Praefectus. As far as I know, no one is in charge.”
“You’re wrong, soldier. I am in charge. As the last ranking officer of the Syrian IV, I am putting this city under martial law.”
“You can’t do that, the city watch reports to the governor, not the IV.” The man began to argue with the praefectus. His patience gone, nerves frayed by the battle outside the gates, Regillus made a decision. He punched the Watch Officer in the stomach, then kneed him in the face as he doubled over.
The praefectus turned to the men behind him.
“You, you, and you. Secure the gatehouse. The city must be defended at all costs. They will answer to me, or to…” He looked over the mixed force of cataphractarii and legionnaires at his command. Other men in the courtyard from the IV were coming to join his detachment, drawn by the calmness and control he exhibited.
“You.” He pointed to one of the grizzled non-commissioned officers. Regillus looked questioningly at him.
“I am Decanus Amelio, sir.”
“Decanus Amelio, you will take charge of the gatehouse and surrounding defenses. Organize these defenders.” He gestured to the men in the courtyard. “And move along the wall to secure it from the Mongols. Our defenses need to be…” He searched for the right word to make his intentions clear. “Secured. With the help of the city watch and the remnants of the IV, we can save Antioch.”
Amelio saluted, taking the anointed men with him into the depths of the gatehouse.
Behind him, the injured Watch Officer was stirring on the ground. Marching angrily over to him, Regillus kicked the downed Watch Officer for good measure. He lectured the hapless man.
“The IV is in control. Not the governor. That man got most of the garrison slaughtered with his idiotic orders. You will obey my commands. Is that clear?” The man groaned, his head barely managing to nod.
“Help him up, keep him under guard.” Several other soldiers came forward, hoisting the garrison trooper to his feet.
“The rest of you, with me. It is time we paid the governor a visit. Get me a horse.”
While some of his underlings located a horse, Regillus felt the energy drain out of him. He dealt with a dozen minor matters, from the location of temporary hospitals and triage places, to the redistribution and command of the multitude of scratch companies assembled from the remains of the Syrian IV’s cohorts and cavalry detachments. The shaky defense began to solidify as a chain of leadership emerged from the ruins of the disastrous battle. New centurions were selected, underofficers chosen, and new conscripts assigned from the city garrison legion.
During a break in the activity, Regillus managed to scarf down two crusty rolls offered by a camp supporter. He was slumped on a bench, resting his feet for a moment, when a well-dressed messenger rode into the plaza, a handful of personal guards dressed in a similar manner pulling up behind him.
“I’m looking for the senior officer here! I bear a message from the governor.” Regillus cursed. He had hoped to be able to deal with the governor in person, not some minor functionary. Regillus forced himself to his feet.
“You’ve found him.”
“The governor has requested that I take command of the Syrian IV. You are relieved of your duties and are ordered to return to the barracks.” The man informed him haughtily. “With the death of the Legate General, it is up to Governor Leftaro to assign a new commander.”
“And you’re the new commander?” Regillus replied in his most bored voice.
“Yes, by the gods, I am. Doux Hasdrun Pillotai.” He gave a bow, doffing his feathered helmet with a flourish.
Regillus repressed a shudder. Every minor nobleman claimed he was a doux, or duke, but few could actually trace their pedigree back to the original Greek settlers of Alexander the Great’s ancient empire.
“There must be a problem then. We already have a commander.” A voice interrupted from a nearby doorway.
Senior Decanus Etruscas had managed to survive the battle as well, hobbling around on crutches with one of his knees swathed in bandages. His appearance made Pillotai grimace in disgust.
“Here, sir.”
He handed over a wet cloth. “You should wipe your face and clean off some before you go to the governor’s palace. You will want the governor to feel secure in the new leadership of the IV.”
Regillus took the cloth, wiping the grime from his hands. His mind was in overdrive, trying to catch up to Etruscas’ scheme.
“Of course, decanus. I can borrow this gentleman’s horse.” Pillotai looked affronted and spluttered in disagreement.
“What an excellent idea, your Legate Generalship. You should leave right away, sir. We will keep the doux company and ensure he is apprised of the situation.”
“Thank you so much, senior decanus. I should not be gone long. The governor should not need much convincing.” Regillus managed to put on a confidant smile.
“Of course not, sir. He should be grateful to have a veteran officer in charge. What would you have me do?”
“Keep things under control here. Repulse any Mongol attacks, but keep an eye on the civic legion as well. Spread them out among our men, and they should stay strong.” Etruscas nodded, gave a salute, then hobbled off. Several other soldiers in the courtyard helped Pillotai off his horse, their hands grasping swords or spears. Regillus mounted the piebald, and turned to watch a demi-cohort of men form behind him.
“We’re here to protect you from any bandits or robbers in the city, sir. You never can tell when civic order may break down on the way to the palace. Especially with the garrison legion on the walls and not in the streets,” their commanding officer informed him. Very impressive he can say that without cracking a smile, Regillus thought. It is obvious Etruscas had thought about the governor trying to seize control after such a battle, especially with the Legate General dead.
It was a short ride from the northern gate, across the Orestes River and into the main citadel. The palace occupied one third of the island citadel, the intricate marble friezes luminous in the bright sunlight. To one side was the main citadel, solid granite blocks of dark grey creating an imposing fortress next to the delicate designs of the palace, to the other, the plaza and building that served as both the imperial air fleet base and the passenger terminal.
Regillus rode into the palace courtyard. The few guards remaining shrank back at his appearance. Am I really that terrifying? Or is it what I represent? Regillus wondered as the demi-cohort of infantry quick marched in behind him.
“Decanus, select an infantry file and have them join me. Remain here with the rest of the men to ensure that no Mongol
or Mongolian supporter attempts to harm the governor.”
Answering in the affirmative, the decanus called off a string of names, and a group of weathered and stern looking legionnaires formed a wedge behind the praefectus as he passed beneath the marble arch and into the palace. Servants scurried out of his way as his boots slapped against the tile floors. He walked past expensive tapestries and pieces of art. Marble friezes carved by famous artists studded the walls. Groups of palace guards shied away from impeding the Syrian IV’s leader as he marched deeper into the mansion. Some bodyguards, he thought, more like street toughs in fancy clothing.
Finally, the guards must have steeled their nerves, for they barred entrance into the governor’s audience chamber. Or had it steeled for them, thought Regillus sardonically.
“You are not permitted into the throne room,” the guard captain informed him.
Regillus looked around at his men. The veterans stared down the guards. The tension weighed heavily in the air.
“I think the governor would like to hear what we have to say.”
“I’m sorry, praefectus, but you are not allowed-”
Regillus shoved him out of the way, his men forcibly moving the guards out of the way with drawn swords. The guard captain’s jaw hung open in shock at the affront committed by the uncouth legionnaire.
“We will not be long,” Regillus stated coolly as he passed.
He pushed open the massive wooden doors. Greased hinges swung inward effortlessly, crashing into the sidewalls with a resounding boom. Regillus took stock of the situation. Much of the assembled court was scattered throughout the audience chamber, turning around in surprise at the sudden noise. At the far end, the governor sat at the head of a U-shaped table, his advisors arrayed to either side. They appeared to be in vehement argument, fists shaking and fingers pointing across the table. While there were guards present, none reacted to Regillus’ entrance. He strode past the colonnades and tables bearing delicacies from the Roman world and beyond.
Antioch Burns Page 4