The One Who Gazes at the Stars (4)
The letter slipped through the cover of night to the Hiberia king's camp.
I dispatched scouts near the barbarians' encampment to watch for any reaction. If they were intrigued by my proposal, they would respond with a signal fire.
And just shy of a full day later, Regulus took the bait. Precisely as expected.
“A signal has come.”
I clasped my hands together.
“From now on, monitor the barbarians' movements every three hours and report back to me.”
“Understood.”
I knew better than to relax just because the fish had bitten. I'd learned the hard way how a moment's carelessness could exact a devastating toll.
After issuing alerts across the legion and heading down to catch some rest, the bells began tolling without cease.
I told them not to launch any ships during the storm. Is it a barbarian envoy?
I rubbed my eyes at the clamor and made for the harbor. A swift vessel from the continent had just arrived in the bay.
Fortunately, the flag flying from the fast ship didn't bear the emperor's emblem. It was the blue eagle crest symbolizing the governor of Belanga.
I figured it was nothing serious.
The border barbarians had been pacified, and this wasn't a dispatch from the imperial center. At worst, it would be some gripe from Belanga's governor about delays in troop transports or pirate troubles.
I greeted the fast ship with a nonchalant expression.
Soon, as it dropped anchor, the dockhands secured the mooring lines tight. Once fixed with several ropes, a long gangplank was laid between the gunwale and the pier. The passengers crossed it to solid ground.
Spotting me, they dropped to one knee. The one who appeared highest-ranking spoke up.
“Vespianus, bearing the command of Belanga's governor, pays his respects to the Praetorian Prefect.”
“What's the business from Belanga? I sent word not to sail until the storms passed.”
“A grave matter has arisen.”
I frowned at his words. Risking this weather meant something urgent, obviously. But grave? Had the barbarians risen again?
The question tumbled out before I could stop it.
“Barbarian trouble?”
“No, sir. It's the grain supply.”
“Grain?”
Most of Briton was in barbarian hands now. Procuring rations locally was impossible. To drive them out later, we'd need supplies shipped from the imperial heartland.
Vespianus gave a wry smile.
“Yes. Severe disruptions in grain procurement from the western provinces, including Libitus.”
“That can't be. It's spring barley harvest time—how could there be supply issues?”
“That's what we thought too. But a swarm of locusts rode in on southern storms.”
Locusts.
I stared in disbelief at the unforeseen disaster. Any farmer dreads locusts as the worst scourge. They ravaged crops across the continent from time to time.
But damage so widespread as to cripple military supplies? That was rare.
“How bad was the swarm that procurement's impossible?”
“Would you believe the land was blanketed?”
“……”
“It's made fulfilling your request all but impossible. We'll have to petition the central government for relief immediately.”
“If we squeeze every last grain, how much can you provide?”
“At maximum effort, perhaps ten days' worth for the Atillca and Briton legions combined.”
“Ten days total. And we have to spare some for the locals—that's woefully short.”
“My apologies.”
Just when I'd prepared to corner the barbarians. All that was left was to methodically reap their necks. Now everything was unraveling. Without logistics, no operation was feasible.
Do I need to revise the plan?
I smacked my lips at this fresh headache.
Grain was essential to war. No army, no matter how elite, fights on an empty stomach. Coin and rations were the bedrock of any force. To lose that...
I need a countermeasure.
But how do you conjure rations from thin air?
This operation required at least five days minimum. Even that was tight, factoring distance to the canyon doom of the barbarians and the weather. Return trip with rations? The problem loomed larger.
As I pondered, I spotted civilians hauling large nets toward the sea facing the harbor.
Fishing in an approaching storm? But with barbarians menacing till now, the citizens hadn't tasted fish in ages.
I watched them trudge off with their nets, then it hit me—a solution to the ration crisis.
Right. We'll haul in fish.
No land crops? The sea would provide.
The storm was coming, but Londinium's bay remained calm for now. With resolve, we could net fish from the river mouth inside the bay.
I summoned the officers at once.
“Assemble the men immediately and borrow nets from the civilians.”
One officer asked,
“Why the nets, sir?”
“We're going fishing.”
The officers blinked in stunned silence at my order.
But it was the best option.
Fish spoiled quickly, true, but salting preserved them long-term. Being coastal, Londinium brimmed with salt stocks.
At my command, the legion mobilized captured barbarian vessels and local craft to fish the bay.
Seeing us launch into the bay ahead of the storm, the barbarians mistook it for a military maneuver and hastened their withdrawal. Complications piled on.
Hiberia's king Regulus insisted on lingering for more plunder, but the other barbarians, spooked by our moves, clamored to retreat. No choice there.
Their pullback accelerated beyond expectations.
This is a real pickle.
Ideally, I'd mass the full force including Atillca, shadow the enemy leisurely, and strike decisively. But circumstances shifted.
With their rushed retreat, total annihilation seemed uncertain. Sly Kariste might harbor second thoughts too.
Still, fishing was my soundest move.
Flap, flap.
Netted fish thrashed aboard, mostly common local herring.
I had them packed in salt barrels.
Smoking was an option, but too labor-intensive.
We salted enough for ten easy days and stowed it in warehouses. The supply officers beamed at the brimming stores.
Rations secured. Now, once the storm passes, pursue the barbarians swiftly.
Ahead of reinforcements, I began tidying the harbor. Ships hauled ashore, gangplanks mass-produced for debarkation.
Next, carts for Atillca—horses they'd bring, but wagons we could supply.
As preparations hummed, the storm struck.
Whoooo!
Fierce gales whipped bay waves to two meters. Crashing surf thundered against the shore. It was as if a great god mocked the petty squabbles of men on this narrow strip of land.
Boom!
Lightning split the black sky. Some soldiers prayed to their “gods,” beseeching mercy from divine wrath.
Most imperials revered some deity. Briton's folk honored mist and lake gods; frontier troops hailed the sun god as patron. Far east, wisdom's deity held sway.
I honored gods but placed no faith in them.
Never once had they answered in my hour of direst need. To me, gods merited awe, not blind devotion or guiding faith.
What we must trust is not gods, but the legion's eagle standard and the empire.
I silently endured the divine fury.
Storm cleared, Atillca legion fresh from Belanga crossed the strait at once. I personally welcomed Rikius at the harbor.
“You've had a rough go, Rikius.”
“Not at all, sir.”
As I encouraged him, a figure in legion commander's cloak disembarked. I stepped past Rikius to greet him.
“Rubiot. You're the new legion commander?”
“Something like that.”
A frontier legionnaire commanding a heartland legion.
A meteoric rise.
Especially for a man who'd seemed destined for obscurity.
I could guess how this posting came about.
The Senate currying favor with me.
Not the only reason, of course.
Rubiot filled the command void swiftly, and he'd mesh seamlessly with me—factors in play.
Anyway, splendid.
I smiled, pleased for once with the central government's choice.
“Your arrival sets my mind at ease.”
Grasping his forearm, I earned a grin in return.
“Thrilled to finally fight alongside you again, sir.”
“Same here. Come on.”
Shoulder to shoulder with Rubiot, I headed to my quarters. Legion debarkation would take half a day at least. I'd introduce Briton commanders and brief him on the situation in the interim.
En route, as I meant to summon officers, a scout I'd sent to monitor barbarians returned. Spotting him cross the avenue toward Fabius, I called out.
“Hold.”
“Whoa!”
The scout yanked his reins, halting abruptly.
“Reporting now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Barbarian movements?”
“Just now, heading to inform Fabius Centurion: the barbarian army has split in two.”
“Split?”
The report puzzled me. Without the Hiberia king breaking off, they should move as one.
“Certain.”
“Which ways?”
“West and north.”
“Fresh split puts them in awkward positions. Flag on the western force?”
“Hiberia king's.”
I scowled.
This complicated matters sorely.
Whatever the scheme, wiping them out in one stroke grew dicey. Chase Hiberia, lose the northern Gelt; pursue Gelt, let Hiberia slip. Neither sat well.
Noticing my grim look, Rubiot asked,
“Trouble?”
“You could say that. We had enough to slaughter them wholesale, now half might escape.”
“Then why not split our forces too?”
“Split ours...”
I stroked my chin.
A perilous gamble.
Dividing diluted our edge. If this was a barbarian ploy, one prong could face concentrated assault.
Worth the risk?
The answer came swift.
Yes.
Miss this chance, Briton stays messy. How to face Shapur with barbarians nipping our heels?
“Agreed. We'll do it.”
Decision made.
(To be continued)