The One Who Gazes at the Stars (3)

Weather has a huge impact on military operations. The torrential rains or snow that come with each season are prime examples. No matter how much preparation you do in advance, it's impossible to completely overcome the constraints of the elements.

I dispatched a messenger ship across the channel to the continent, instructing them to send reinforcements only after the storm had passed.

If they rushed over thinking we were in a hurry, trying to time it just right, and a ship capsized in the storm, it would devastate troop morale and the war effort.

A day after sending off the messenger, black clouds rolled in from the west, blanketing the sky. Even in broad daylight, the world turned as dark as night. Under the protection of my guards, I oversaw the battlefield cleanup.

"Urk!"

Maggots writhed in the corpses where entrails spilled out. Soldiers gagged as they hauled the bodies to pre-dug pits. It was a hassle, but to avoid disease, we had to dispose of the dead quickly.

We dumped the bodies into the pits, piled on dried animal dung and oil, and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠set them alight. An indescribable stench filled the air each time the flesh burned.

"There. Hurry up and move those bodies."

While some soldiers carted off corpses, others collected gear. There were so many bodies that gathering their clothes and weapons took ages.

I sent the mountain of weapons to the smithy to be melted down. The continental barbarians' arms were smuggled imperial goods from our merchants, usable right away—but these were different.

They were made from poor-quality iron, low-grade stuff. Better to melt it down, purge the impurities, and forge it into ingots.

As I supervised the cleanup, a soldier on the walls blew the horn. I turned at the sound.

"Barbarians."

Soldiers drew weapons instantly. I raised a hand to halt them.

The barbarian was flying a white flag.

They already know we behead envoys, yet they send another. Interesting bunch.

This one seemed to come knowing he might die. I liked his nerve—maybe worth hearing him out.

I sent a few soldiers to fetch the envoy. He raised both hands to show he was unarmed, then dismounted. As they frisked him, he stared our way.

The soldiers gave the all-clear thumbs-up.

I had them bring him to me.

The barbarian cleared his throat and knelt before me.

"Chieftain Kariste of the Galt tribe offers respects to the imperial commander."

"I don't want your respects. Your head, maybe. Why are you here?"

I asked coldly, and Kariste bowed his head.

"To make a proposal."

"A proposal?"

"Yes."

"If it's surrender or some ridiculous negotiation, forget it."

"Of course not."

"Then what?"

Kariste looked up, meeting my eyes.

"We will deliver the heads of the Hiberia and northern Gelt leaders to you, Your Excellency. In return, permit my tribe to withdraw."

I thought I'd misheard for a moment.

So, he's here to negotiate, offering to sell out his own allies for his tribe's safety?

Bold. Impressive, even.

Unless it was something like this, I had no reason to listen. He knew me well.

"Did I hear that right? You're offering up your own side?"

"Yes."

"Impressive. Sounded like a joke."

It wasn't incomprehensible. Loyalty among barbarians is the emptiest thing there is.

I took my hand off my sword hilt and eyed him.

"One question. Hiberia and the northern Gelt leaders aren't idiots—won't they suspect you might sell them out?"

"That's why I have a pretext."

"Pretext?"

Kariste pointed skyward.

"While the storm approaches, imperial reinforcements can't cross the sea. In that time, we can ravage Briton, abduct its people. I told them you'd negotiate under that threat."

"Blackmail to force talks. Not a bad cover."

"Exactly."

Of course, it's a cover—but also a threat to me. If talks fail, they'll turn the province to ash. Clever fox.

I gave a wry smile.

"How exactly do you deliver their heads?"

Kariste sketched a map in the dirt. Rough, but clearly Briton.

He jabbed a spot.

"Assuming talks succeed, we'll begin withdrawal ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠toward the northern wall. The route goes through Belite Pass—so block it there, and it's done."

"You'll prepare to seal the pass."

I could guess: like I'd done at Londinium, bury flammables in the ground. One spark, and it'd trap ten thousand barbarians easy.

"Worth offering heads for, right?"

More than worth it.

But what was his angle? Truly selling out for safety, or luring us from Londinium before Atillca arrives to crush us? Only time would ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠tell.

I met his blue eyes and spoke. Part of me wanted to lop off this cunning bastard's head, but I couldn't let Briton's people die.

A devastated, impoverished province would strain the legions garrisoned here.

"Fine. I accept."

Kariste slammed his forehead to the ground, showing utmost deference like a submissive tribal chief.

"Thanks to the empire's mercy. Galt will honor its pact."

"See that you do."

I watched him bow and retreat, then called Fabius.

"Yes, Excellency."

"That barbarian who just came made an intriguing offer. Sell out his allies, save his tribe."

Fabius looked puzzled.

"If they're scared of our reinforcements, why not withdraw early?"

"They lost too many warriors—need spoils to save face. Gathering enough grain and livestock takes time."

Fabius nodded in understanding.

"So he's saying they want to leave with Briton's loot."

"Precisely."

"Why not refuse and sweep them when Atillca arrives?"

I shook my head.

"I'd love to, but they hinted at a threat. If talks fail, they'll scorch the province."

"Barbarian logic."

"Couldn't ignore it. So we're playing along—for now."

Fabius smacked his lips.

After our dramatic reversal and victory in sight, letting some enemies slip felt sour.

"But handing initiative to barbarians sticks in my craw. Who knows their game."

"Quite right."

"So, sow some discord."

"Toy with the enemy?"

"Yes. I'll send secret letters to the barbarians. Join us, betray the rest, and you leave alive."

I'd reuse the trick I'd pulled on barbarians at Sian.

"But couriers will be traced."

"That's why I called you."

"Got a plan?"

"Simple. Pick our two best archers. Have them shoot arrows into King Regulus of Hiberia's camp at night—letter rolled inside."

"Just Regulus?"

"No need for more. Botch it on multiples, and we're exposed. This works best on ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠greenhorns lacking experience."

I spoke from hard-won knowledge.

"Understood. I'll ready the men."

I clapped his shoulder and glared west, where Kariste had vanished.

Hiberia's King Regulus was a talented youth. Barely twenty, ruling barbarian kings meant real charisma and skill.

But no genius gains experience overnight. You need years crossing borders, facing sly foes, to see the big picture.

So I'd target Regulus. Normally, his pride would resist—but cornered now, a tempting offer would snag him.

I kept it blunt, no flowery rhetoric—just shake his resolve. We're not enemies; join us, take your loot.

He'd salivate. Even rushing withdrawal now, Atillca's pursuit would sever their tail loaded with spoils.

Safe passage? He'd save face despite defeat.

Friendly ties with empire, plus loot. Irresistible.

Regulus would waver.

In exchange, one demand: Delay the withdrawal among the barbarians.

If mighty Hiberia stalls, withdrawal turns riskier. Kariste's options narrow.

Betray utterly, join the empire.

Whatever his scheme, survival means our side.

No room for schemes.

Initiative shifts to empire.

Then he loses leverage. We seize it.

Confiscate all his tribe's loot. Without bargaining power, mere survival's a gift.

Stripped bare, staggering home—his warriors won't forgive him.

Let the enemy kill the sly fox. Too slippery to execute as envoy, too risky to release.

I smiled, setting down the quill.

Now, watch the barbarians bite my poisoned apple and fall. Then end it.

Fitting punishment for defying the empire.

I blew out the candle.

(To be continued)