Crossing the Great Wall (2)
Thud thud thud thud!
“Hiya!”
The barbarians charged on horseback, howling as they came.
Like wolves, they targeted the rear of our soldiers.
A few unlucky men who lagged behind were cut down by swords.
“Aaaagh!”
The barbarians trampled the fallen soldiers under their horses' hooves as they closed in tight on our troops.
“Distance: two hundred!”
“Fire!”
The archers nocked their bows toward the sky and loosed their arrows.
Whirrr!
The arrows arced through the air, and the barbarians scattered their formation. Circling our camp like wolves before a kill, they vanished into the forest.
I watched the scene unfold before stepping out to the camp's entrance.
“The cavalry is ready, sir. We can pursue immediately.”
Fabius said.
I shook my head.
“This could be bait too. We need to stay cautious until the Atillca Legion joins us.”
The barbarians' forces were depleted, but provocations like this one couldn't be taken lightly. If we bit too easily on their ploy to lure and crush us piecemeal, we'd suffer a humiliating defeat.
Lose once, and the barbarians atop the northern Great Wall might think they had a shot and come swarming.
That would mean needless bloodshed.
Better to avoid it altogether.
After the barbarians retreated, we tended to the wounded.
More than thirty soldiers had died or been injured in the surprise raid we'd failed to anticipate. It was lighter than if the barbarians had hit our main target. Had we blown the horn later, we'd have lost at least a hundred.
Reeling from the unexpected losses, we spent the day in low spirits.
The next day, a few barbarians approached the camp and hurled insults.
“You empire chicklings! This is our land. Did you come to add your corpses to this wild, barren soil? If so, we're grateful—next year's harvest looks promising!”
I ignored their taunts.
Instead, I sent a few soldiers up to the palisade.
“Eat this!”
The soldiers dropped their breeches and shook their bare asses at the barbarians.
Nothing quite as direct as vulgarity to counter insults.
Enraged by the humiliation, the barbarians bellowed and advanced a few more steps.
Our archers, waiting for just that, let fly their arrows. The barbarians flinched and fell back.
“Hahaha! Seems you're the cowards here. Thirsty? Have a drink!”
The soldiers laughed as they pissed toward the barbarians.
Trembling with fury at our mockery, the barbarians slunk away.
They were probing for casualties and waging psychological warfare.
Clever tactics, but we were seasoned.
We'd seen and learned too much to fall for such petty tricks.
Another day passed, and the Atillca Legion arrived.
“Atillca Legion standard-bearer reporting!”
No need for Fabius to point it out.
I spotted the dust cloud rising faintly on the horizon—our allies approaching.
“I'll greet them myself.”
I led my officers out beyond the palisade.
Soon, a mounted Atillca Legion standard-bearer reined up before us.
“To Imperator Ain, the Atillca Legion standard-bearer reports for duty.”
“Well done. Where's Legion Commander Rubiot?”
“He's commanding the column.”
I nodded and waited for Rubiot to arrive.
Rubiot looked utterly exhausted from days of forced marches. Spotting me, he dismounted.
“Atillca Legion Commander reporting to the Praetorian Prefect.”
“How went the battle?”
Rubiot smacked his lips.
“We missed Regulus. Half escaped by ship, including several chieftains.”
“Good enough—we took half. Let's deal with the Gelt first, then Hiberia.”
“But I heard only a few Gelt remain. What's left to mop up?”
Rubiot asked, puzzled.
“We stripped their main forces, sure. But remnants linger in each tribe.”
Rubiot stroked his chin at my words.
Barbarians on expeditions often left behind underage children, women, and elderly warriors.
Not because they lacked fighting value, but to keep the raiders light and swift with elites only.
“Even so, the old folks and kids pose no threat.”
“We'll see. We've fortified the camp—rest a day, then we strike.”
“Understood.”
With a hand on Rubiot's shoulder, I watched the legion enter camp.
Nights north of the Great Wall were colder than expected. Nothing like continental winters, but the damp wind had soldiers wrapped in cloaks, teeth chattering.
We kindled fires against the chill and awaited dawn.
As morning light broke and we readied to march, an officer entered my tent.
“Sir, a messenger from the south.”
A messenger?
What now?
Puzzled but intrigued, I admitted him.
"In place of His Imperial Majesty the Emperor, to the Guardian of Britannia, Imperator Ain, we deliver this message from Londinium."
“Londinium?”
I tilted my head at the fact that Privus, the Briton governor, had penned it, and took the letter.
As my officers watched curiously, I read it slowly.
How much time passed?
My eyes halted at one line.
‘Dane King Orestes sent a letter of protest?’
A chill gripped my chest.
Dane King Orestes.
Who was he?
One of the north's mighty powers who could dispatch ten thousand to Briton. A standout among self-proclaimed barbarian kings—and my father-in-law, privately. For him to protest.
I read on.
‘So he wants compensation for his son's death. At a time like this.’
Orestes' demands were unreasonable. His son had sided with the enemy despite our empire's alliance—killing him was just. Yet demanding payment for his head? Barbarians gonna barbarian.
I could refuse, but he'd never sit idle.
He commanded respect, if not vast herds.
Considering barbarians like Kariste who'd crossed the North Sea in numbers, his threats rang true. Even with Dein weakened, his banner could rally ten thousand.
‘What to do.’
I pondered.
Briton Governor Privus wrote that provincial coffers couldn't offer Dein satisfaction.
The response fell to me alone.
‘Money's out—funds are tight for expedition costs. Squeezing more from provinces hampers Briton legions' resupply. And food's impossible.’
Dein, poor farmers, would take wheat or barley gladly—but we couldn't spare it.
Locust swarms and Etna Volcano's eruption had slashed imperial yields. We barely fed ourselves; handing grain to barbarians? No.
‘Only one option: Hunt Gelt and hand them over as slaves.’
That would save Dein king's face.
But it'd mean war till the Gelt seed withered.
They wouldn't yield slaves easily.
I folded the letter as officers asked.
“What does it say?”
“Dane King Orestes demands compensation for his son's death.”
“The nerve! We should be protesting him.”
“True. But our legions are worn thin—we can't sustain endless wars. Starting another with North Sea barbarians would break the empire.”
“We can't bow to his insolence.”
The officers' faces hardened.
“Arrogant bastards.”
“No choice. Focus on capturing slaves this campaign, men. Spare women and children—take them alive.”
“Yes, sir.”
I hated ordering a 'slave hunt,' but for the empire, I'd bear the dishonor.
Whoosh!
From dawn, we torched steppes and highlands in an extermination war. Forests, grass, villages—anything burnable went up in flames.
To deny barbarians any future grazing, we slaughtered all life.
We filled wells, salted fields to barren salt flats.
Dozens of barbarians fell to us amid the ruin.
“P-please, spare me.”
“Bind them all.”
Soldiers roped every capturable barbarian, stringing six to ten per pole like dried fish beside the column. Minimal guards, maximum escape-proof.
We hunted relentlessly, leaving flayed chieftains and notables stuffed as scarecrows in charred villages—brutal warnings.
Destruction! Death!
We scorched Gelt lands, pushing north.
Remaining Gelt forces fled to mountains, avoiding open battle.
As desperation peaked, some chieftains sued for peace.
“We beseech the empire's commander: Take our heads, but show mercy.”
“Mercy is for those who serve the empire. Begone.”
I terrorized the Gelt while leaving cracks.
Serve the empire.
That one phrase sowed division, preventing unity.
Faced with an unstoppable foe, self-preservation would lure submissions.
My bluff worked.
Would-be unifiers vanished, unable to rally Gelt. Armies splintered by tribe. Even North Sea crossers like Kariste fled home.
With resistance crushed, I summoned surviving Gelt chieftains for a feast.
Most attended, haunted by past defiance.
“Aaaagh!”
I sipped wine, savoring their screams. A feast for peace, but not for barbarians and empire alike.
Soldiers spitted chieftains alive. As they shrieked, I bantered with officers over drinks.
“Gelt is pacified. We'll take women and children too—no rebound for decades. Right?”
“Indeed.”
“Hiberia next.”
Rubiot nodded.
“Wise words.”
“Then the east.”
Officers' eyes gleamed.
Hiberia and Gelt crushed—Briton secure. No northern foes left. One enemy remained: ambitious eastern king Shapur.
But Shapur was no pushover.
A strategist rivaling Heigirt, commanding armies beyond other barbarians.
Full commitment? Eastern foes could top two hundred thousand.
Two hundred thousand!
More than all prior barbarians combined.
Shapur: dire threat, empire's existential wildcard.
Clear fringes before him.
“Yet he'll kneel before the empire's eagle.”
“May victory crown Imperator Ain!”
I raised my glass to their toasts.
“The empire triumphs.”
As we clinked, barbarians wailed. Their agony sweetened our wine.
(To be continued)