The Hole (4)
Just before dawn broke, the barbarians began to stir. Even after I'd severed the lion's head to demonstrate our resolve, they showed no fear.
Or perhaps desperation drove them—knowing they couldn't let my forces swell unchecked.
No, that's not it. This is a premeditated assault.
I squinted toward the barbarian army. They were advancing slowly from Londinium's northeast, their attack bolstered by the sunlight streaming from the east.
And this was the hour when human fatigue peaked.
The timing of their assault was impeccable.
Ching.
I drew my sword and bellowed.
“Fabius! Get every off-duty soldier up on the walls!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Load the catapults with stones. No need for precision aiming.”
I issued the orders, then flung my cloak back and sprinted toward the gates. My guards hurried after me.
“Praetorians!”
At my call, a Praetorian dropped to one knee.
“Yes, sir.”
“Go to the governor's mansion immediately. Tell him to prepare to burn sensitive documents in case of emergency.”
“Understood.”
I didn't tell the governor to flee. If he bolted, it would panic the civilians and troops alike. He knew that; no need for pointless words.
“Gosu! Sound the drums!”
I shouted up to the drummer on the gate tower. He pounded the drum furiously, and the soldiers sharpened their eyes, straightening their lines.
“Catapults ready!”
At the centurion's command, soldiers hefted stones onto the machines. Ordinary catapults took rocks a single man could lift, but Londinium's were different—built to smash ships approaching the coast.
They were monstrous in size and payload. Ten burly men grunted as they loaded a basket nearing three hundred kilograms.
“Fire!”
Thwoom!
A dull roar echoed as the stone-filled basket launched skyward.
“!?”
The barbarians creeping toward the walls froze at the sound from above.
Whirrr.
The ropes securing the basket snapped free mid-flight, unleashing hundreds of stones onto the ground below.
Thud-thud-thud!
Stones rained like hail, and quick-witted barbarians yanked up shields. But the slow ones were everywhere.
Those caught shieldless were exposed.
Splat. Thunk!
“Argh!”
A few unlucky souls screamed and crumpled under the barrage. The barbarians faltered at our catapults' power—they'd never faced such beasts on open ground.
Their formation fractured. Struck units lagged; unscathed ones surged. I kept pounding the damaged spots.
Meanwhile, their vanguard entered our archers' range.
“Range: one hundred!”
Officers shouted; wall troops nocked arrows. Our bows were larger than continental ones.
Size didn't mean power, though—Briton's damp climate demanded solid-wood longbows.
“Loose!”
Whirr!
Arrows arced skyward. The rising sun blinded us, so we fired at maximum range—best we could manage.
Barbarians raised shields to guard torsos, bulling forward. Without the glare, we'd have bloodied them more en route.
I smacked my lips.
“Sir, all troops in position.”
Fabius dashed up with the report.
I nodded, turning to the men.
“The empire's honor rests on your shoulders. Let's offer victory to the golden eagle!”
“Long live Imperator Ain! The empire triumphs!”
I raised my sword to their roar. Dawn's first rays glinted sharply off the blade.
“Fight with honor, nobility, and pride!”
The barbarians' first wave slammed the walls. As if anticipating imperial siege defenses, they wielded bizarre tools.
Tat-tat-tat!
A barbarian wrapped poles around his waist, using comrades as braces to scale the wall. Faster and deadlier than ladders—shorter exposure time.
“Stop them!”
Centurions roared, charging the pole-climber who'd crested. The bizarre tactic rattled our troops.
No greenhorn thought that up. There's an imperial veteran among them.
Hiding my dismay, I commanded.
“Give them no foothold! Let them gain the wall, and we'll pay in blood!”
Soldiers swarmed the climbers, forming shield walls. Hanging barbarians thrust spears, but we held firm.
“Shoot!”
Archers loosed while shields bought time—targets dangling from poles. Sun be damned; they were close enough.
“Gaaah!”
Screams from above; base barbarians lowered poles, cut down dead, bound fresh climbers. Ladders followed.
They're prepared.
I gritted my teeth.
At this rate, Londinium could fall before Atillca's legion arrived. We needed countermeasures now.
Wish we had piss to pour—even piss?
A thought flashed.
Right. That.
“Mobilize civilians—haul night soil now!”
Troops blinked.
“Sir?”
“Night soil. Shit. Bring it.”
They hesitated, then rushed down to rally folk. I glanced at them briefly, then back to the walls.
Thwoom!
Enemy catapult stone whistled past. While we focused close-in, theirs advanced.
“Aaaagh!”
A soldier smashed by twenty kilos flew off the wall—dead on impact.
“Watch the enemy catapults!”
Theirs lacked precision, thankfully. Most wall-aimed shots overshot into the city—a civilian nightmare, but our reprieve.
As troops held desperately, civilians arrived with shit-filled buckets from latrines. I wrinkled my nose at the stench but trusted it'd work.
Soldiers hauled tubs up.
“Dump it!”
Sploosh!
Maggot-boiling feces and piss rained on barbarians. Filthy as they were, even they retched and recoiled.
We kept dumping—barbarians shunned those spots, shrinking our defense perimeter.
Good.
I ordered more. Big city's latrines yielded plenty; livestock dung filled gaps.
Barbarians howled as we poured.
“Filthy empire dogs! Defiling sacred battleground with shit? Warriors, you?”
“Better than dishonorable defeat gifting you victory. Ignore the savages—keep dumping!”
I urged the troops. Our barrage enraged them; we even lobbed shit via catapults.
An hour in, their “perfect window” passed.
Sun's glare faded; our shots sharpened. Arrows and stones hit true; barbarian momentum broke.
They floundered, then retreated at trumpet call.
I wiped sweat, forehead, catching a savory whiff. Checking my hand—smeared with shit.
But it didn't disgust. That filth had held our darkest hour.
I chuckled at the stain.
Their dawn force was a patchwork of tribes—less cohesive than it looked, in organization and command.
But calling this a win? Hardly. They'd probed under sunlight cover, minimal losses.
We'd burned stamina fighting nonstop, expended supplies. Days of this, and we'd crumble walls intact.
So we'll show them.
Night fell; I launched prepped kites.
Midnight winds carried them high—dots of fire in minutes.
I steered toward their camp.
“Ease more line. Altitude drops slow.”
Officers guided by position.
Kite handlers eyed me, adjusting gingerly.
Go. Show the savages hellfire.
I clenched a fist at the night sky.
If this spooked them, it'd disrupt their rhythm—one more day bought.
I watched the descent eagerly.
First kite neared their lines.
Fire from heaven—some barbarians yelped in shock.
“A star! Falling star!”
Never dreaming lanterns on kites, they panicked.
But as it landed, flames spread—they realized.
“Fire! It's fire!”
“Fire arrows?”
They rushed out, hunting phantom archers. More kites dropped, sparking fires amid chaos.
Damage minor, but aerial arson from safe range stunned them.
They scoured for bowmen at first, then puzzled.
We laughed at the farce.
“Idiot savages won't attack at dawn now.”
“Damn right. Wasting stamina in panic means needless losses tomorrow. They know reinforcements take time—they'll eat a day's delay.”
“Next part's the issue.”
“Yeah. They're not dumb enough to fall twice.”
I sent officers to rest, climbed the tower. Legion eagle standard gleamed under stars. I stroked it, praying victory for the empire.
(To be continued)