Order and Justice (2)
“Imperator Ain has arrived! Come out and greet him at once!”
As we reached the stockade, Rikius shouted. The soldiers spotted our black cloaks and hurriedly leaped down from the watchtowers.
Soon, the legion officers opened the stockade gates and knelt before me. Liktus bowed his head and said,
“We have no face to show you, sir.”
I scanned the surroundings and realized that Gratianus, the commander, was absent. I asked Liktus about it.
“Where is General Gratianus?”
“He has fallen in battle.”
“What nonsense is this?”
A man who had reportedly rallied his forces and retreated just days ago—dead? I felt the premonition I'd dismissed becoming harsh reality.
“Two days ago, in an arrow attack by the rebels.”
“How did that happen?”
“Bad luck.”
Liktus replied curtly.
I gestured for the officers to rise.
Inside the stockade, I saw soldiers with haggard faces. They all looked exhausted and drained of spirit. I passed them and entered the command tent. Once the officers had taken their seats, I placed my sword on the table.
I slowly looked over the officers. Their faces, too, bore the marks of repeated defeats—resolve shattered. This was not good.
I decided to use shock therapy on them.
“What’s your plan for the suppression operation?”
“We have nothing concrete yet.”
“Then start with what we can do. Bring the map.”
One officer fetched the map and spread it across the table.
I pointed to our army’s position with my sword and asked,
“Our forces are positioned about here, right? Where are the enemy?”
“They’ve entrenched themselves at Tishan Pass, ten kilometers southeast.”
“Tishan Pass.”
I studied the map and terrain. A single road lay between Tishan Pass and our camp.
I examined the lay of the land carefully, then slid my sword toward Tishan Pass.
“Then we advance on them.”
“Pardon?”
The officers looked flustered.
“Do you have reinforcements?”
“From the Praetorian Legion, perhaps?”
I smiled at their questions.
“If there were reinforcements, wouldn’t they already be standing before you?”
The officers wore puzzled expressions. I pointed at my own face.
“Me.”
For a moment, they exchanged glances at my jesting reply, then chuckled.
“Hahaha.”
“Indeed, you’re stronger than an entire legion, sir.”
The officers burst into laughter.
They seemed a bit more at ease now. Trivial as it was, such humor helped boost morale.
I stabbed my sword into Tishan Pass on the map.
“So trust me and advance. Gratianus failed, but I’m different. Who am I?”
“The one who leads the empire’s glory, the Northern Imperator Ain!”
“That’s right. I am the guardian of the eagles’ honor. Follow and trust in me, and I’ll deliver the fruits of victory to you. Quartermaster officers, prepare for march. Battalion commanders, inform all centurions and below that I’ve arrived.”
“Yes, sir.”
The officers saluted and withdrew. I sank back into my chair.
I’d issued the orders confidently, but confronting the emboldened rebels head-on with our weakened forces would be no easy task. Still, marching into enemy territory was meant to intimidate them and restore our own morale.
Without that, crushing them swiftly was impossible.
To do that, I need to let the enemy know I’ve arrived.
I resolved to play every card I had.
Once word spread that I’d come—not just anyone, but the Northern Butcher who’d crushed tens of thousands—they’d have no choice but to grow wary. Their spines would chill at the news.
And exaggerate our numbers.
No one would believe the Praetorian Prefect rode here alone. They’d assume at least the Praetorian Legion trailed behind. Those familiar with the empire’s straits might see through it, but it would still sow fear.
Then, coil before them and apply pressure—they’ll make a move.
I planned to force the rebels, who held a fine position, into action through pressure. If I played it right, they might maneuver and expose a weakness.
I pulled the sword from Tishan Pass.
Its blade caught the lantern light, flashing with sharp menace.
The legion’s strength was weaker than expected.
After two defeats, our numbers had dwindled to nearly five thousand. Considering we’d set out with seven thousand—including a thousand from the Praetorian Legion—it was a staggering loss.
Without strict discipline and battle-hardened experience, the legion might have ceased to exist. With the commander dead, what more needed saying?
But facing raw militia lacking real combat experience had prevented total annihilation.
They could fight a single battle, but lacked the skill to capitalize on victory. There’s a reason rabble remains rabble, no matter how fiercely they scrap.
Still, I couldn’t underestimate their commander.
Whoever gathered these wretched slaves and peasants to rout elite imperial legionaries was no fool. Underestimate them, and I might follow Gratianus’s fate.
So I must be cautious.
I steeled myself and mounted my horse.
“The legion advances.”
Thoom. Thoom. Thoom.
With the drums, the legion standard-bearer raised the flag and took the lead.
“Imperator Ain marches with us!”
“Ain! Ain! Ain!”
The soldiers chanted my name.
It was hard to believe these were the same men whose morale had plummeted moments ago—their cries rang with vigor. I raised my hand in response and spurred ahead of the column.
To exaggerate our numbers, we led with several makeshift eagle standards. I rode shoulder-to-shoulder with the legion standard-bearer.
“Rikius.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have we sent an envoy to the rebels?”
I’d ordered one to instill fear—letting them know of my arrival was key. Rikius glanced at the sun and replied,
“An hour ago.”
I took a swig from my waterskin.
“If they rode, they should be returning soon.”
“They’ll be here any moment. Ah, there—coming now.”
Rikius pointed to the sloped hillside.
A lone rider approached from the slope.
I raised my hand, halting the column.
The soldier soon reined in before me and dismounted nimbly.
“Decurion Lumnes of the 9th Centuria.”
“Good work. Did you inform the traitors of my arrival?”
“Yes, sir. I announced your coming and subtly urged surrender.”
Formally, that was all we could say to rebels. I’d anticipated the response.
“And they refused?”
No rabble surrenders without a fight. Lumnes nodded.
“They insolently claimed no fear of imperial forces. Said even if not you, but ten legions came, they wouldn’t yield. My apologies.”
“Arrogant lot. Well done.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lumnes remounted and vanished to the rear. I signaled to resume the march and said to Rikius,
“What do you think?”
“Bluffing.”
“Bluffing?”
“Yes. If they truly weren’t afraid, they wouldn’t bother disparaging you and the imperial army. Their deliberate downplaying reeks of fear.”
“Well seen.”
I was pleased with Rikius’s insight. Experience had honed him well.
“Then how should we act?”
Rikius saluted across his chest.
“Combat march.”
“You know it. Issue the order.”
I grinned, and Rikius bellowed,
“Legion—combat march!”
We raced toward Tishan at terrifying speed.
Tishan Pass was one of Graike province’s key military chokepoints in the northwest. Crossing it opened the road southeast to the province’s heartland.
Beyond its military value, it held great importance as a water source.
To the east lay Opal Lake, supplying a third of Graike’s drinking water.
A hundred-kilometer aqueduct from the lake fed the southeast cities. Thus, the pass was priceless.
Gratianus had good reason to launch from here toward the southeast.
But now the pass belonged to the rebels.
I surveyed their camp, solidly entrenched atop the pass. Whether spooked by my name or not, they’d positioned spanning toward the lake—a setup for flight along the aqueduct if needed.
But it’s odd. Most might be scared, but not their leader. They could be feigning fear to lure us into overreaching.
Of course, they might truly be terrified.
Let’s test it.
I snapped my fingers. Rikius approached and bowed.
“Yes, sir.”
“Build stockades from the west side of the pass. Take all the time needed. Encircle the pass in a semicircle southward.”
“Defense instead of attack?”
“No. This is the attack.”
I clasped my hands behind my back. Stockades were typically defensive, but flipped, they became offensive.
Encircle the neck in a siege—it was encirclement attack. Building them was aggression.
What would the rebels do?
I grew curious about their reaction.
For the first two days of our stockade work, the rebels showed little response.
But as our lines extended south, they began reacting.
Matching us stockade for stockade? They never planned to flee. They’ve seen through my intent to pressure and probe for weakness.
I sighed inwardly at their capable leader. But before my officers, I kept a straight face.
I couldn’t win if the troops watching me lost confidence.
Overseeing construction, I pondered.
Who the hell is it? Who leads these rebels?
Curiosity about their commander swelled.
While both sides built parallel stockades, Rikius took loudmouthed soldiers near their lines to exhort surrender.
They got curses in return, but provoking yielded intel.
After days of this, a defector emerged from their camp.
I decided to meet him personally.
The defector was a young slave, not yet thirty. Well-fed lately, he’d put on some weight.
His condition confirmed the rebels’ supplies were decent.
“Are you the one seeking the empire’s mercy?”
“Y-yes. I never meant to defy the empire.”
“Then why join the rebels?”
He explained: a miner, suddenly everyone buzzed of a changed world. He followed comrades and ended under rebel banners.
I couldn’t help a wry smile.
But most rebels were such thoughtless conscripts.
“Fine. What do you know of their commander?”
“Not much. Just glimpsed him from afar and heard rumors.”
“Tell what you know.”
“Yes.”
The rebel leader was a man named Oclock. A gladiator slave from the empire’s northeast barbarians.
Eleven years as a gladiator; a warrior before enslavement, a demon with a blade.
Hot-tempered, he’d lost one eye to the whip—nicknamed “One-Eyed Boss” among rebels.
His tale explained their victories over imperials.
An eleven-year arena monster oozed charisma and veteran grit.
With him as focal point, even rabble could muster real fight.
Gladiators sometimes played “imperials” or “barbarians,” learning drill tactics.
Eleven years killing peers would familiarize him with imperial ways.
Treating such a foe as mere rabble? Gratianus’s blood was inevitable.
I dismissed the defector and sank into deep thought.
This opponent was the empire’s bred “King of Slaughter.”
How to cook a monster who survived eleven years of hell? No easy answer came.
(To be continued)