The Fox and the Bear (4)
“Fire!”
The officer's command rang out, and the soldiers released their bowstrings.
Thwip. Whoosh!
The arrows streaked through the air, tracing long parabolas before plummeting toward the ground.
Thunk. Thud.
“Argh!”
Arrows slammed into the backs of the barbarians swinging their swords and the soldiers trampled beneath warhorses. The enemy never dreamed we'd loose arrows in the thick of the melee where our lines tangled with theirs—they reaped the whirlwind of our counterattack.
The front ranks of horses and riders tumbled to the dirt, blocking the path for those behind. Some spurred straight ahead, heedless of their comrades' sacrifice, but many hesitated.
That split-second falter saved our second line.
“Javelins!”
The few barbarian cavalry who broke through lacked the numbers to shatter our rear ranks. The first wave fell rolling under our soldiers' hurled spears.
The men hastily reformed their lines. As we locked shields into a wall, the enemy horsemen thrown in to punch a hole found themselves powerless.
Spotting this, the foe dismounted their riders and sent them forward with the infantry to hammer our formation.
Clang. Crash.
Each blow of weapon on shield sent a heavy thud reverberating, shoving our soldiers back. But the well-drilled line held firm. The barbarians howled in frustration before our wall of shields.
“Fire!”
Rikius loosed another volley.
This time, they saw it coming and snatched up their shields. But warhorses made poor targets to hide. Wounded mounts reared and bucked, throwing their lines into chaos.
“Praetorians!”
At my call, four guardsmen rushed forward.
I nodded, and they cupped their hands into a stirrup. I stepped up, sword raised high, and bellowed.
“Legion—advance!”
Rubiot, spotting my signal, personally hefted the 16th Legion's eagle standard.
“Forward!”
“Hoorah!”
The men roared, surging as one to shove back the barbarians. Their front, disordered by the rear confusion, buckled under our push. Every foe who stumbled found a blade gutting them from below.
“Filthy raiders! Die!”
Soldiers stomped the gasping wounded under iron-shod boots and hacked off heads. As their line crumbled, the barbarians lost heart, falling back one by one. When a few turned to flee, the fight turned to slaughter.
The legionaries carved through, butchering the enemy all the way to the mouth of the river bend. The barbarians yielded ground without strength. A few resisted, but they couldn't stem the tide.
The battle had tilted decisively our way.
Victory for the legion.
I stepped down from the guardsmen's hands.
“Rikius, fetch His Majesty's standard.”
“Yes, sir.”
I planned to raise the emperor's banner at the moment of triumph, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the men. This would rank among the finest victories under my command.
Then disaster struck from nowhere.
Pheew!
A single fire arrow whistled skyward—and one of the tribes in our camp seized their weapons backward, turning on us. Betrayal from allies we'd taken for our own.
The barbarian commander Cleitus swung his blade and roared.
“Kill Ain! Slay the empire's Imperator and victory is Sartia's and Goti's!”
Cleitus's men butchered our nearest soldiers without mercy. The allied and Praetorian troops, caught utterly off-guard, screamed as they fell.
Cleitus. So you're the final card Sargess and Aldemark trusted. That's why they picked this hopeless ground, favorable to legionaries, and committed only our men.
I swallowed hard.
Sargess and Aldemark.
Those two had to die.
If such brazen gamblers, wagering their necks and tribes' fates, slipped away alive, what threat would they pose to the empire's future? They ended here, no matter the cost.
To steady the men, I bellowed.
“Hold fast! We're still winning. Defend your posts! Kill the traitors!”
Even as I rallied them, I couldn't fathom Cleitus's betrayal. We held the advantage—why turn their swords on us? What madness had Aldemark and Sargess promised?
As I ground my teeth, Rikius urged.
“Sir, you must fall back. It's too dangerous.”
I shook my head.
“Turn tail from these heel-biters? Never. If I leave, the frontline will think their commander and the emperor's banner fell. That's what they want.”
“But—”
“Rikius. Trust the men.”
My tone brooked no argument.
“Understood.”
He bowed, drew his sword, and dashed to join the Praetorians.
Bastards.
The sudden treachery from an allied tribe plunged us into dire peril. We'd committed most forces to the fight, exposing me and the command staff.
The traitors numbered barely a thousand, but their position was fatal.
Soon barbarians swarmed my position, blades flashing.
The guardsmen and allies fought bravely, but the surprise thrust pierced our defenses—they reached me before we could stem them. I shouted at those past my shield.
“Cleitus! You treacherous savage! We granted your tribe land to live on, safety, mercy—and you repay it with betrayal?”
Cleitus bared his teeth in a grin.
“We appreciated the mercy, sure. But living off empire bread? Might as well be penned livestock.”
I roared back.
“I don't know what Goti and Sartia promised, but you won't live to claim it. Today, your head goes on a pike.”
“We'll see.”
He smirked.
Our soldiers rushed from all sides, but my escorts dwindled fast.
Soon, only thirty Praetorians and Rikius remained around me.
But Cleitus had one shot. Stall a few minutes, and our men would encircle him tight—no escape.
His troops hammered our wall, howling. The guards held the line with shields, yielding no gap. The barbarians battered futilely; our men endured.
“Ain! The empire's commander hides behind his men?”
I spat at his taunt.
“What good's a Praetorian prefect chasing rats?”
Sensing desperation, Cleitus drew his sword and charged. He felled two guardsmen—Rikius met him head-on.
Clang!
The empire's lion-hearted young officer clashed with the grizzled barbarian veteran.
Blades locked, they traded murderous glares.
“Pay for defying the empire—with your life.”
Rikius shoved, sword grinding.
Cleitus yielded a step, spinning away.
Rikius stumbled, off-balance from the feint. A faint smile curled Cleitus's lips.
But he underestimated Rikius.
Young, yes—but an eagle who'd crossed a hundred battles.
As he fell, Rikius twisted, hurling his sword at Cleitus.
It struck true; Cleitus dropped his blade.
Rikius sprang up, charging.
Cleitus yanked the sword from his flesh and swung wildly.
Rikius whipped off his helmet and flung it.
Crack!
The unforeseen blow made Cleitus drop his weapon, vomiting blood.
Rikius mounted him, smashing the helmet down repeatedly. Cleitus went limp after a few blows. Leaderless, his men panicked and fled.
Our soldiers swarmed, blades reaping the traitors.
I approached the scene and Cleitus, still out cold. Rikius stomped his gut hard; his eyes snapped open.
“You'd take me—yet I have you. Cleitus.”
He coughed blood.
Then burst out laughing, as if at some grand joke.
“What's so funny?”
“The empire you serve so loyally. Hilarious.”
Rikius pressed his boot harder.
Cough.
Cleitus spat more blood.
“The empire you mocked won today. Hardly your place to laugh.”
“Heh... If you truly believe that, you're the fool. Think I betrayed for Sartia and Goti alone?”
“Of course their promise mattered—princess and blood alliance if they killed you. But it paled next to your empire's politicians.”
He spat blood and continued.
“One promised my tribe rich lands and gold enough to satisfy us, if I slew you.”
“Lies!”
I dismissed it.
“Heh. Why lie on my deathbed? I just wanted to bargain.”
“Bargain?”
“Yes. I'll name the politician who ordered your death—and where our letters are hidden. In return, let my tribe live as before.”
I met his eyes.
Tempting, rooting out an internal foe.
But I have one rule.
“I refuse.”
“What?”
Cleitus's eyes bulged as he choked blood.
“The empire treats no traitor as a negotiating partner. Your tribe will pay soon—not exile, but every last one spitted on stakes, a lesson in betrayal's end.”
“Ain!”
“You dare my name, you lowly turncoat?”
Rikius drew his sword, boot still on the gut.
“Damn human butcher!”
“You knew that and came anyway.”
I whirled, cloak snapping, and said coldly.
“Kill him.”
Rikius drove the blade into his throat.
Cleitus twitched, then slumped like a punctured frog.
Rikius kicked the severed head my way and joined me.
“You could have tested him first, then killed.”
“No. Dragging it out weakens the example. Swift death for the doomed is right.”
Rikius nodded.
Meanwhile, legionaries had slaughtered over half the barbarians in the river bend. Had I fallen, the headless legions might have retreated—but I lived.
I'd won the death-or-glory gamble.
I eyed the foe driven to the riverbank. Sargess and Aldemark's standards wavered, then snapped. Survivors fell with every swing, heads rolling.
Then a few fur-clad barbarians plunged into the icy river.
Among those diving into the frozen current, I spotted a familiar face.
That's Sargess.
I barked orders.
“Archers to the bend! Don't let them escape.”
I roared.
But the last holdouts on the bank fought without their kin's despair. Gutted and slashed, they held position to shield their kings from arrows.
Their garb marked them royals—Sargess and Aldemark's sons, cousins. They matched their leaders' boldness, guarding their lords to the last.
Sworn to die for their king.
In a way, like me—defying grim fate to defend the empire.
But the river's ice-cold. No guarantee your sacrifice saves them.
I shook my head at the falling warriors.
Thus ended the tens of thousands of barbarians who defied the empire—in glorious defeat.
(To be continued)