The Two Sides of the Coin (1)
For several days, an unnervingly peaceful calm had held. No sign of the barbarian horde, no word of Anpianus. I was so curious about what they were up to that I half-wanted to crack open their skulls and peek inside.
Then one day, a soldier appeared from the north, clad in the ragged uniform of a legionnaire from Anpianus's outfit—the 11th Legion.
In other words, one of our enemies. But once, he'd been one of us, guarding the border alongside our frontier legion.
We gave him food. Gaunt and starved, he pitifully buried his face in the bowl and lapped it up like a dog. He was so ravenous he polished off three bowls clean.
Only after filling his belly did he spill his story.
"The Anpianus we crowned emperor is dead."
"What?"
Our eyes went wide. The usurper who'd all but won the war—dead? Struck by lightning? It was so absurd we pressed him again for the truth.
"It's true. And it happened right in the middle of a meeting—his throat slit."
"Barbarian work?"
Rober asked.
"Yes."
The soldier's voice was thick with regret.
"A quarrel?"
"I don't know the details. Word is, the barbarians raised their voices over some merit issue. Anpianus tried to soothe them with fine words. Then Ronad got his ass handed to him."
"By us."
Rubiot chimed in like punctuation.
"So one of Anpianus's battalion commanders, pissed about the defeat tanking morale, started mouthing off in public. Next day, the commander was dead."
"Anpianus held him accountable, I take it."
"Yes. They argued about it nonstop in meetings with the barbarians. And in the middle, he got run through by a barbarian blade. That's what we believe, at least."
"A hollow end. So who's in command now?"
"The ten commanders from our side who were with Anpianus were slaughtered too. Their guards as well. On paper, it's an army claiming the imperial throne, but now the real power's in barbarian hands."
"That's why I deserted. It's no army of the Empire—it's invaders. Even if we hate Emperor Baccus, we can't serve a barbarian one, right?"
We exchanged bitter smiles. We'd thought Anpianus was the glue holding that army together, but it hadn't crumbled without him. That meant the barbarians had hashed it all out beforehand. The skill of their king, Heigirt, in pulling it off without Anpianus catching wind—it sent chills down our spines.
"If that's true, you've brought priceless intel. In light of that merit, we won't punish you. Care to take up arms with our legion?"
Rober asked.
"If you'll have me, I'll gladly serve the Empire. I want to reclaim my honor as an imperial soldier."
"Good. Ain, centurion."
"Yes."
"Can you take this man under your wing?"
"I'll handle him."
I shared a brief glance with Rober. He didn't fully buy the soldier's tale. He could be a spy spinning lies to worm his way in. We'd seen too much betrayal and intrigue on the border to blindly trust someone we'd been at swords with yesterday.
Rober put the soldier's surveillance and management in my hands.
I called Rikius and had him escort the man, assign him a fitting post, and outfit him with spare gear.
Once Rikius led him out, Rober spoke.
"Hope it's true. If so, the 11th Legion will see mass desertions."
"But Heigirt's no fool—he wouldn't let the army scatter like that. Even if he's seized control, the barbarians are rivals at heart."
"Sit idle too long, and they'll disperse. If we take that soldier's rant at face value, Heigirt won't budge, will he?"
The centurions nodded at my words.
"Probably. Not exactly glad tidings, then."
Ironic for us. Anpianus, the Empire's traitor, croaks—and we can't celebrate. Go figure.
Rubiot smacked the table with his good hand.
"That bastard's dead? Feels damn good. The dead legion commander and soldiers can rest easy now."
"Should've been our blade on his neck, though. Right?"
Garin centurion grinned as he said it.
We let out a tense but merry laugh.
Yeah, time to rejoice where we could.
We shared a cup of wine amid that strange mood. Sweeter and more fragrant than usual.
The next day, I met with Basilius, the legionnaire who'd surrendered yesterday.
Managing my subordinates as a centurion was routine—and something to do often. Basilius sat before me with an awkward expression.
"So, how's the assignment? Bearable compared to before?"
"Yes. Suited me well. The decurion gave me a good spot."
"The men?"
"Just faces so far."
"Get friendly quick. It's the path to saving your skin—and making allies at your side."
"Yes. I'll try."
I nodded. Listening to him, I saw a gentle side; turns out he was peasant-born. A point of connection.
"How long served?"
"Six years."
"That's enough to make a living anywhere. No greenhorn."
"Yes. The decurion said the same."
"I'll talk to Centurion Riti later. He's handling interim quartermaster duties. Get you paid at six-year rates."
"Thank you."
"Can't do anything about your savings or pension, though."
"Of course."
I pitied him a bit.
One wrong allegiance, and the blood-earned life savings—gone. Sympathy welled up.
But recalling he'd once swung steel at our men, it was fair punishment. Hell, generous, merits considered.
I waved him out.
Basilius left; Rikius entered soon after.
"He settling in?"
"Decent enough. Hard to believe he's 11th Legion."
"Seem like a spy?"
"Nah, too bland."
"Yeah? I figured. A real spy would be sharper."
I told Rikius to keep a closer eye on Basilius for now.
But that didn't last. Within days, more 11th Legion defectors poured in—over sixty, giving us headaches.
More witnesses confirmed Anpianus's death, but it bred confusion.
Surveilling that many was tough, and Heigirt sitting idle while they fled? Suspicious. Rumors swirled; we couldn't read his game.
While we grappled with the influx, the decurions sent east returned with barbarian envoys.
They brought word: the barbarians were open to allying with us.
Rober called an immediate council.
"The Black Wolf Tribe, Red Fox Tribe, eastern Baran Tribe—twelve tribes total, offering warriors."
Rober distrusted barbarians, but knew troops beat none. His tone was brighter than usual.
"Warriors come with terms, I assume?"
"Aye. They want the old border fort lands. Shift the line fifty kilometers west—not official, just abandon the neglected posts till they get formal residency."
"Outlandish demand."
Rubiot scowled. To him, unused to high-level bargaining, ceding land was absurd.
"Empty border— they could take it anytime. Lend us troops, we crush Heigirt threatening the Empire's north, restore peace."
Garin countered.
Both sides rang true to me. Rubiot was right: precedents erode borders. Aid for land invites endless grabs, till they swallow the Empire whole.
But Garin too: without their cavalry to douse Heigirt's fire, imperial security crumbles.
No side wholly right or wrong. At least, that's how I saw it.
I listened, arms crossed.
"Land aside—what numbers?"
A centurion asked.
"Average five hundred per tribe. Six thousand total."
Six thousand.
The weight hit us.
Meager against Heigirt's host, but cavalry. Used right, six thousand horse could claim his head.
Centurions fell silent, stunned by the barbarians' strong hand.
"Decent sincerity, but no land. Empire's borders yield not an inch."
Rubiot stated flatly.
Rober nodded.
"Agreed. As imperial soldiers, we can't think—let alone decide—to yield territory. I get Garin speaks from loyalty to the Empire."
I felt a twinge of shame. Even considering imperial soil as bargaining chip in our bind? Rookie Cassius legion commander would've shot it down.
Still green, me.
I silently berated myself.
"Ain, your thoughts?"
"Same. Empire's borders aren't negotiable—not a handspan."
Rubiot nodded approval.
Garin sighed deeply.
Rober decided.
"Asked in case opinions differed, but Rubiot's firm stance confirms it. Tell the barbarians: no territory."
I hoped Garin wouldn't take it hard.
His face wasn't dark—pensive, instead.
Negotiations resumed without tribal back-and-forth. The envoys held full proxies from their chieftains—more clout than expected for their stature.
I waited as Rober parleyed.
When the council chamber door opened, Rober's face beamed.
"Deal's done. No land—instead, all spoils and prisoners as slaves, double trade volume. And a chance for chieftains to parley with imperial officials."
"What? Six thousand for that?"
"Heigirt's rise pains their guts too. If he gobbles imperial lands, no more trade."
Made sense why they'd bend for scraps despite land refusal.
But was that all they wanted?
The gulf from initial demands felt off.
I couldn't shake the unease.
We shook hands with the departing envoys at the gates. One looked familiar—Black Wolf chieftain's second son? Resembled him.
Asked if he was Halcon's son: the eldest, he said.
Fitting for full authority.
Bolder, more spirited than the second. He'd lead the auxiliaries himself, thumping his chest with a grin.
His name? Halcon, of course. They inherited fathers' names, it seemed.
Anyway, like Heigirt, no ordinary barbarian. His guards' devotion screamed it—loyal to the death.
Charisma to grip hearts like that? No commoner.
I filed young Halcon away in my mind.
Envoys gone, we dispatched to the governor. We'd prepped to face Heigirt; if he had aid ready, send it our way.
Garin volunteered.
We—Rober and I—tried dissuading the old centurion, but he waved it off. Even joked.
"Sick of smelling only men. Gotta see a woman now and then. Send me."
With his insistence and no better pick...
Still, sending a lone decurion to the governor felt off. Garin had few men to spare; most centurions were swamped.
Garin off, we planned barbarian quarters, integration.
Then a deserter with Heigirt intel arrived.
"Heigirt's on the move? Where to?"
"Leading his full force here—to Sian."
"What?"
The news blindsided us.
Our camp erupted.
Revenge for his son? Or to uproot us, the thorn in his back?
Unknown.
But after leaving us be so long, now stirring slow?
His intent eluded us. Made me doubt he was the genius toying with imperial generals like children.
A true commander minimizes losses, sets the board right.
A suspicion prickled my chest.
No.
Even Heigirt wouldn't game it that deep. If so, he'd be a monster.
Like Barka, the nightmare general crushed five centuries ago—ravaging the heartlands a decade, slaying thirty thousand in battle. War god Barka.
Comparing proved my fear of Heigirt.
Truly, lion father to whelp Ronad.
I swallowed the doubt. No shaking the ranks in our underdog bind.
I'd trust barbarian rivalries. Nothing else for it.
(To be continued)