Rolling the Dice (1)
“Come on, drink up. It’s a happy day, isn’t it?”
“Here’s to you, Commander. Let me raise a glass.”
“Aren’t you guys pouring a bit much?”
I accepted every glass they offered.
My comrades who had shared life and death with me.
Rikius. Rubiot. Cogol. Riti. Various battalion commanders and my subordinates—all beaming with genuine joy, urging me on. I couldn’t refuse their kindness, treating my promotion like it was their own.
Sextus, the Praetorian commander who received my report, had formally appointed me acting legion commander and pinned the battalion commander’s insignia on me.
Even if I was reassigned to another legion later, at least battalion commander was guaranteed.
For a commoner like me, it was a position I’d never even dreamed of.
“Down the hatch.”
I drained the fine wine from the city hall warehouse without hesitation.
“Come on, let’s drink to our Ain rising all the way to legion commander. To the 16th Legion!”
“And one for the victory of our proud legion brothers and the honor of our fallen comrades.”
Rikius added his toast.
We clinked glasses and downed the red liquid in one gulp.
I emptied four bottles of wine with my comrades after two long months. The sweet aroma chased away all my worries.
Still, I felt a twinge of guilt toward Ershiang, who was standing solo watch in the commander’s role, letting me drink without a care tonight.
Well, the centurions and decurions had only a few drinks before heading back to duty.
When I woke from passing out facedown on the table after draining the booze, astonishing news awaited me. Ershiang reported that the enemy camped an hour from the city had withdrawn north.
“The 11th Legion retreats just because they lost once?”
Even if their morale was in the gutter, shouldn’t they at least keep us pinned? The enemy’s movements felt off.
I rode out myself. I needed to see it with my own eyes to believe it.
All that remained at their camp was charred firewood, abandoned gear, and half-eaten scraps.
The enemy had truly pulled back.
Heigirt. Was it just a blunder on his part?
Or did he have some other scheme?
Either way, I decided to take meaning from the fact that I’d halted his advance. If Aren fell, they could freely use two national highways to push into the empire’s southwest.
Of course, bypassing Aren to take eastern Libitus would have the same effect, but it still mattered.
I felt my vague unease about Heigirt easing.
As if to bolster our confidence further, deserters from the 11th Legion kept surrendering in droves.
We were now certain we could hold Aren even if Heigirt showed up personally. The mood was shifting decisively.
After scouting thirty kilometers north, I reported the enemy’s retreat to Sextus. If things went well, we might win the war before the flames reached eastern Libitus province.
The enemy was dwindling post-defeat, while we were surging. With Sextus’s main force joining, victory was within reach.
Emboldened by the report, Sextus messaged that he’d race across the 9th national highway from the imperial heartland to Aren.
“Yes!”
I clenched my fist at Sextus’s reply.
It had taken a long detour, but we’d finally seized a chance to crush the enemy. Numerically inferior, yes—but qualitatively superior. With momentum on our side, we wouldn’t lose even in open battle. As long as we didn’t fall for dirty tricks.
We believed the empire’s eagle would claim ultimate victory over the barbarians, reclaim the borders, and return to our garrison at Sian. One cry echoed in our minds:
The empire’s golden eagle triumphs!
While awaiting Sextus’s army, we began square-formation drills for pitched battle. Defending Aren was covered by current training, but facing barbarians on open plains demanded it.
“No gaps even an inch wide. Don’t show space until your shield-grip hand twists. Remember: any breach costs your comrades’ lives.
Same for wavering during advance. Keep shoulders level with your brother’s. We are the legion. Steps synchronized, movements unified. Want to be part of the legion? Start with your breathing.”
Centurion Rubiot roasted the troops again. It wasn’t disdain for recruits. One tiny slip could doom cherished comrades. Being touchy about it was natural.
“Legion, advance!”
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The soldiers stepped forward with tense faces, aligning ranks and files, eyes fixed ahead. Even short training showed visible results.
Centurions and decurions had drilled through sleepless nights.
Of course, our legion combat power still wasn’t high.
Numbers were short to begin with.
Survivors from Sian’s legion plus auxiliaries: one thousand. Accepted slaves: another thousand.
Total: two thousand.
Against a full legion of six thousand, we lacked four thousand.
Frontier legions rarely filled quotas, though—five thousand was decent.
I watched the troops march smoothly, then had them raise the legion standard.
“Halt!”
Officers shouted as if waiting.
Thud.
Soldiers stopped instantly. Basics were solid.
Legion tactics started from the feet. Unified steps meant the foundation for everything else.
“Good. Rikius!”
“Yes. Lead them around the walls. Don’t be rude to the centurions.”
“Yes. Legion, forward!”
Rikius took the standard and led.
I followed, commanding the troops and nodding slightly to my passing centurions.
As the legion marched, I approached the garrison commander watching our drill.
He eyed us with no small surprise. This man, once just pocketing bribes and scheming, had changed since the last battle.
Watching a legion drill he’d normally ignore was proof.
I approached him.
“Commander Bofiadus, what do you think of our troops’ training?”
“Impressive. Felt like watching Alpinus’s legion assemble from afar.”
“Then let me ask: would the garrison consider training like ours?”
“We’re ordered to defend the city.”
“No civilians left to protect now, are there?”
“True enough.”
He felt the emptiness too—city gutted, nothing to guard. We defended a hollow shell.
“We’ve got an empire to protect. Right?”
“Commander, this city’s our only job. Never imagined leaving.”
Bofiadus spoke firmly. Natural, given his position and our ties.
“I admit, since entering the city, we haven’t gotten along. But we’re both soldiers, aren’t we?”
“Quite right.”
“I’ve been where you are. Chasing success, money first. Narrow my world, secure it, climb—that sufficed.
Bofiadus listened silently.
“But crossing life’s edge changes that. Success? Useless against death.
What matters is how honorably our blood shapes the outcome. Nothing else. Bofiadus, soon we’ll head north with Sextus. Many won’t return.
Still, soldier’s pride in being someone’s shield—not this tiny city’s wall.”
“Wish I could think like you, Commander. But I’ve got family to feed.”
“I understand. But on your deathbed, no regrets? Handing everything off, missing that ‘day’?”
“Commander.”
“Think on it. We’re the empire’s eagle. Pride in fighting for all within its walls. If you’re a soldier, stand with us. It’ll protect your family too.”
Bofiadus gave a bitter smile, saluted crisply, and left.
I hoped the garrison would bolster our legion.
Heigirt was a foe needing every cat’s paw.
I trusted Bofiadus’s wisdom.
Next day, he came haggard, sleepless. Hard choice, but he pledged support.
Said pushing Heigirt out was the only way to restore the city. I gripped his hand firmly.
We exchanged names with garrison officers—late, after fighting back-to-back once.
But family now, tensions eased.
Bofiadus shared warehouse supplies he’d “hoarded,” embarrassed.
I said aiding the empire now sufficed.
With his “hoarded” flour and wine, we feasted luxuriously. Full bellies lifted morale.
Afternoon, garrison trained with us—better adapted than slaves, thanks to basics.
We treated their officers properly, co-commanding.
Their addition brought us to 2,500.
Half-legion strength.
I recalled yesterday’s shattered legion—scattered, broken, standard lost.
Once, survival for even one seemed impossible.
Yet we rose again.
We’d march to battle, face Heigirt, claim blood price for Cassius and the dead.
I vowed it.
Troops brimmed with confidence. Morale soared; they thought they could take Heigirt head-on.
Even charging 50,000, they’d cheer.
This confidence would inspire Sextus’s incoming troops to victory.
An army overflowing with morale and assurance.
Even outnumbered, we wouldn’t yield to Heigirt. Unlike our unified empire, his was a ragtag barbarian alliance. Pitched battle? We had the edge.
I eagerly awaited Sextus.
Two days. Three. Four.
As his due date neared, we bustled. Loaded gear on wagons, swapped worn for new. Replaced battle-battered commander helm and cloak. We’d greet Sextus in gleaming splendor, showcasing the 16th Legion’s might.
But promised afternoon came and went—no Sextus.
Sky gray, drizzle falling.
I stood at the gates with centurions, rain-soaked, cracking jokes. Rain delaying march. Sextus’s troops tired, so Heigirt lives another day. Banter eased anxiety.
“Lis!”
“Yes, Commander.”
“Ride ahead, scout Sextus’s army. See how far they’ve come. Can’t keep troops and officers in the downpour.”
The barbarian Lis saluted.
I returned it, handing over two horses Rikius brought—one mount, one spare for distance.
Lis mounted expertly.
Raised a warrior, he looked more at home on horseback than ground.
“Back soon.”
“Thanks.”
I sent Lis, told troops and officers I’d relay his report, dismissed them to rest.
I stayed at the gate, arms crossed in the rain, lost in thought.
Why was Sextus late?
Road collapse en route?
Plausible. Imperial roads long neglected. But heartland roads held up; unlikely.
Or testing our discipline? To Sextus, our deserter-slave mix looked rabble.
Rain as perfect excuse?
I figured he was delaying to test us.
Three hours passed. No Lis. Farther than thought?
Unease crept in. Three-hour round trip at full gallop: sixty kilometers. If farther, no entry today by standard march.
What was Sextus thinking?
Moderate delay for “test”—this bred resentment. Missing schedule questioned command ability. Precision was a commander’s core virtue.
Gaining suspicious glares from officers and men? Suddenly, I doubted Sextus’s competence.
I had Rikius prepare dinner.
No welcoming tonight. Better feed the troops.
As I turned from the gate, Maximus called from the watchtower.
“Commander! Our scout’s returning!”
“Already?”
I rushed out. Lis galloped frantically from afar. His face pale as death. What happened?
Unnameable dread gripped me.
(To be continued)