Rotten Apple (3)
“Even so, I figured you'd head straight to Libitus after taking Sian without a second thought. But they actually sent an army. Are we that much of a thorn in their side?”
We stuck out our tongues at the sight of the enemy troops swarming like a black tide beyond the walls. At least Heigirt himself and his main force weren't in sight.
I spotted familiar uniforms amid the enemy ranks. No doubt about it—those were legion soldiers.
“Traitor scum from the 11th Legion.”
The troops spat in disgust. To us in the 16th Legion, who'd crossed swords with the barbarians, those bastards were objects of utter contempt.
I raised a hand to quiet the men and called for Ershiang.
“Ain, sir.”
“As usual, those pricks will come yapping before the fight. When they start blabbering, loose arrows and crack their skulls. Can you handle it? I want to piss them off.”
“I'll give 'em hell, just as you command, sir.”
I clapped Ershiang on the shoulder.
Soon enough, a barbarian on horseback rode forward. Draped in a full wolf pelt cloak fastened with an ornate brooch, he looked like someone of decent rank.
At least a chieftain's kin, no less. Figures—he'd need that much pull to get a shot at speaking here.
Perfect.
I glared down at him with cold eyes.
“I bear the words of Heigirt, the lion of the north and true bearer of the emperor's mandate. Garrison commander, open the gates at once and kneel. Do so, and you'll be spared.”
“Can't hear you. Come closer and say that shit again.”
I cupped my hand to my ear and bellowed.
The barbarian scowled and edged nearer. Up close, he clearly reeked of youth. No real battle experience, that was for sure.
He bellowed the same line again.
I flashed him a big grin.
“Still can't make it out. Listen, I'm the deputy commander of the 16th Legion—even Heigirt couldn't break us. Who the fuck are you to demand my surrender? If you've got the balls, come right up and say it to my face.”
He gnashed his teeth and fell for the obvious taunt. Green kid, staking his worthless pride on his life. Idiot.
His warhorse closed to within a hundred paces of the wall. The next instant, Ershiang released his bowstring.
Thwuck!
The arrow slammed dead-center into the bastard's throat.
He tumbled from his horse with a look of utter disbelief. Enraged, the barbarians roared “Uuuu!” and hammered their shields, bellowing—but I didn't bat an eye.
That ought to have them good and riled. Even if the educated 11th Legion officers tried talking sense, their barbarian commanders would charge like boars with their tails on fire.
With or without legion troops, that gave us the edge.
I flicked my ear as a few more barbarians rode up, hurling furious abuse from afar. Dumb fucks. After betraying Anpianus, the man they swore oaths to, what right did they have to yap about honor? Laughable.
I ordered the troops to prepare for battle.
The barbarians spewed curses for a good while before blowing horns and beating drums.
Soon, 11th Legion soldiers mixed with a band of barbarians advanced sluggishly toward the walls.
“Barbarian dogs—crawl in through the doggy door!”
Our men jeered.
The 11th Legionnaires ignored it, maintaining formation in stoic silence. They aligned ranks and files with precision. Still a legion, after all. I expected a tough fight.
I called for Rikius.
“Rikius! Raise the legion standard. Show these mutts who the real legion is.”
“Yes, sir! 16th Legion! Our eagle watches over you!”
Rikius hoisted the standard high at my command.
This was a pride duel between headless legions.
Anpianus and Cassius.
A battle for the honor of our fallen commanders.
I'd prove that Cassius, the young pup, was worth ten of that dog-shit Anpianus.
“Rubiot! Get shields in position!”
“Got it! Shields up! Close ranks but leave swinging room for your mates' arms! Fight like you trained, and you'll win!”
Rubiot rallied the troops.
As the enemy legionnaires hit fifty paces, I shouted to Ershiang.
“Ershiang! Light 'em up!”
“Archers, ready!”
Ershiang echoed the order.
The men, arrows pre-stuck in the ground, snatched one each and nocked.
“Loose!”
Arrows rained like hail on the enemy legion. The 11th proved their mettle, deftly shielding the volley. Minimal casualties.
Even the softest border legion hadn't forgotten basic drill. They pressed on, silently blocking arrows.
I'd factored that in. If arrows dropped them, they didn't deserve the legion name.
But what about catapults?
At my signal, Riti's three hard-won catapults—labored over all night—hurled boulders.
Creak-thunk.
The massive rocks arced high, then smashed into the packed legionnaires below the wall.
Crunch!
Heads-up shielding against arrows, they never saw it coming. Men turned to minced meat—horrific even to me, their foe. How must the 11th feel?
Those near the instant-dead froze in shock, movements sluggish. Some panicked, hesitating out of formation.
Green as they were.
And they thought to face us?
I sneered, clashing blades with an enemy climbing a ladder.
“Don't stab with your sword—just block! Shield bashes will kill plenty!”
Veteran officers directed flawlessly.
Unlike barbarians, legionnaires were hard to kill quick. Armor aside, breaching shield and sword walls was tough.
But they were slower than barbarians—vulnerable to shield pushes. We'd bled them enough to know it cold.
Combat experience made all the difference. Rookies faltered, but vets filled gaps seamlessly.
“Aaaagh!”
An enemy legionnaire screamed, plummeting from the wall.
Not a fatal drop, but no heavy infantryman walks away intact. He twitched frog-like on impact, then stilled.
We methodically bashed with shields, stabbed with spears, holding firm. The enemy probed gaps but found none. Morale-crushed under barbarian heels, the 11th fought passively. Our losses stayed light.
After pouring assaults, they retreated, leaving heaps of dead.
A solid win, on paper.
I praised the men but stayed vigilant. If that was Heigirt's full five thousand, fine—but he wasn't that sloppy.
That barbarian was a nightmare strategist. A monster who only fought sure things. No way this was his endgame.
I stood watch from the ramparts till deep night, bracing for the next wave.
Dawn came without sleep, no attack. Just those five thousand for Aren?
No clue what they were scheming.
Dumping the unruly 11th to bleed us out? Or feigning to lure complacency, exhaust us? We guessed at Heigirt's mind but drew blanks.
Same as Sian.
Without Cassius, we'd have knelt right there. The bastard wove terrifying schemes. Surely some vicious plan here too.
But this half-assed jab only boosted our morale—a net loss for them.
Even underrating us as rabble, this wasn't Heigirt's style. What the hell were they after?
We quit guessing his plot.
Brains failing? Time to fight with brawn.
Mid-morning meal and tea chasing fatigue, the garrison commander visited. Buoyed by yesterday, he shed his corrupt slacker skin.
“Sir, their numbers suggest we could field-battle and win. Why just defend? Shall we sally?”
“Nonsense. What if barbarians hide another force, waiting for us to emerge? Then what?”
“Well...”
Bofiadus looked like it hadn't crossed his mind. No battles fought, no plots imagined. Pathetic.
But he'd held post yesterday—no dressing down.
I softened my tone.
“Not saying you're dead wrong. Field battle might work. But we're in a fight we cannot lose. Never stack the odds against us.”
“Shortsighted of me, sir.”
He bowed to my words.
I nodded, sending him off.
If even he pondered sallies, the troops must too.
Not bad.
Better bold than terrified.
Confidence surged; the legion buzzed with vigor.
Barbarians dared no more probes.
Then an imperial courier arrived from the heartlands.
“Courier of the new Praetorian Prefect, General Sixtus. Open the gates at once.”
The herald, in ornate cloak with imperial standard, and his guards bellowed imperiously.
We pondered a trick but dismissed it. Cracking gates wouldn't let a rush—they knew the drill. Fortress cities had inner bent walls.
Barbarians knew too.
“Open the gates.”
Rubiot ordered in my stead.
Gates parted; the courier entered under the emperor's flapping banner.
I met him with my centurions and 11th Cavalry commander.
“Glory to Emperor Baccus. Deputy 16th Legion Commander Ain kneels to the imperial banner.”
I dropped to one knee, honoring the empire. Centurions followed suit.
Old-school protocol; the courier bowed respectfully.
“By proxy of Emperor Baccus, I relay General Sixtus's words—he who commands this war.
“The general heard of legion reforms in Aren. He seeks your strength and the enemy's intent.”
“Gladly reported. First, a question for us.”
“Speak.”
“Has General Sixtus mustered cavalry to face Heigirt?”
“He's scrambling, but not Creper's scale.
One mobile field legion and six from eastern borders—scraping five hundred per border legion. Total under fifteen thousand.”
No honorific for Creper. Fair—given forces to crush barbarians and Anpianus, he got wrecked. Erasure from records wouldn't shock; why honor him?
Creper, once empire's number two, faded into infamy. Positions' vanity hit home.
“Short for facing Heigirt head-on.”
“The general knows. Hence high hopes for Aren.”
“Grateful.”
I detailed our plight, all we knew of barbarians.
The courier marveled, vowing full report.
Gone, we buzzed about Sixtus. We'd shouldered Heigirt alone, heavy burden lifted—faces brightened.
Sixtus.
That new name shone hope's light.
(To be continued)