Northward Advance (1)
Sextus's army had been all but annihilated!
Lis brought us news we could scarcely believe. He'd reached the small village of Beden along Highway 9, where he encountered stragglers from Sextus's force who had fled the battle.
We couldn't accept it.
As far as we knew, Heigirt was still north of the mountains. For him to cross them overnight and invade the imperial heartland?
"Heigirt crossed the Ardia Mountains and invaded the empire's core? Impossible."
Rubiot said it aloud.
I agreed completely. Even if it were theoretically possible, executing it in practice was next to impossible. It simply couldn't happen—no matter how brilliant a strategist Heigirt was.
The Ardia Mountains were that treacherous. They weren't called a natural fortress for nothing. Even crossing them would leave an army exhausted, easy prey for a handful of defenders. And once over, supply lines were a fantasy. It was a madman's gamble.
Yet he'd gambled and won?
No—beyond that, he'd crushed Sextus's entire army?
Absurd. How could barbarians, with their loose organization, pull that off? A tribal coalition should've scattered crossing those peaks.
When we refused to believe it, Lis reported what he'd seen and heard.
"The officer I met said they had no idea Heigirt would cross the mountains. And they never dreamed he'd pinpoint the imperial army's route and ambush them."
"Crossing the mountains is one thing, but knowing our army's movements for a ambush? Is that even feasible?"
Rubiot slammed his fist on the table.
That's when Riti spoke up.
"It's not entirely impossible. Don't the quartermasters stick to the imperial army like leeches?"
Quartermaster.
His words made us grimace. True—it wasn't impossible. Those sleazy dealers trafficked with anyone; they could've been in bed with the barbarians.
But connecting with quartermasters far from their territory for precise intel? Hard to imagine.
Still, forcing the pieces together, it wasn't out of reach. Barbarian auxiliaries embedded in imperial units. Use them as nodes, and information could span hundreds of kilometers along the border.
Once that link clicked, we all fell silent.
Gods above!
To execute what we'd dismissed as fantasy without a hitch—this was no mere man. His control and resolve were terrifying, but the full scope of his strategy was horrifying.
Use us to bait Sextus, cross the mountains for an ambush. A chain of gambles, triumph of calculation and intelligence. No ordinary mind could conceive it, let alone achieve it.
Sending the unruly 11th Legion against us first? A throwaway fight to pin imperial eyes. Make us think he'd swing south via Aren or tie us down while striking east into Libitus.
Then, withdrawing the 11th to embolden Sextus—show even their "pathetic" remnants could win, convincing him his half-ready force could take on demoralized tribes.
Meanwhile, Heigirt's main force and the tribes prepped to breach Ardia—while eyes were on the 11th, us, and east Libitus. The 11th's pullback aligned with his breakthrough.
We and Sextus gloated over his retreat, blind to his main army's moves.
He'd foreseen this, planned meticulously, endured and prepared. He was a monster beyond our nightmares.
We had to admit it.
Heigirt had shattered our optimism with one masterstroke.
The empire couldn't even suppress him now—its heartland lay exposed. Initiative was wholly his.
Never once had we underestimated him, but Heigirt was too cunning, too ruthless.
Like Barca reborn, the empire's worst foe in history. Was there a general who could match this beast strategically?
Frozen by his feat, the 11th Cavalry commander clasped his hands and spoke. A taciturn man by nature.
Zaromal.
The grizzled warrior in his late forties calmly assessed amid the shock.
"If Heigirt's marched on the heartland, we can't stop him."
Obvious. Our 2,500 against tens of thousands at full steam? Led by a strategic genius? Zero chance.
We nodded grimly. Zaromal eyed us, then made a chilling proposal, quiet but firm.
"So we advance north."
"North?"
He nodded.
A barbarian by birth, he knew their ways better than anyone.
"You can't face a storm head-on—you evade it. Consider Heigirt's resolve crossing those mountains: his rear guard won't be massive. His non-combatants couldn't follow; they're left behind."
I grasped his intent.
Ditch legion tradition for barbarian-style raids to force Heigirt back. Dishonorable, but pragmatic.
"He'd still leave enough to check us. At least double our number—triple factoring east Libitus. Maybe over ten thousand."
"Still cheaper than facing Heigirt himself."
True. He'd smashed two imperial main forces under Praetorian commanders—in unfavorable conditions. Tactically, strategically, a god-gifted prodigy.
Better odds against multiples of average foes than that monster.
We weighed it and saw it as the empire's sole salvation.
"Ain. Your call?"
Rubiot asked.
All eyes on me. North or watch the heartland burn?
I stood, slamming the table.
"The empire we swore to demands our blood. The 16th Legion marches to enemy soil with honor, defending our world, our future, our families. We advance north!"
"Knew you'd say that, Ain."
"Forward, eagles guarding the empire's north! Time to spill our blood!"
I scanned my comrades' resolute faces. They'd steeled themselves for the empire, all in.
No hope of victory, but this was our only path.
Rikius raised the legion standard; Rubiot bellowed.
"16th Legion—prepare to march!"
Thus we advanced north, staking the empire's—and our—fate.
The legion departed under cold rain, knowing the odds, knowing we marched alone.
Yet this alone could save our world. Soldiers marched in rigid lockstep, faces set.
Death march or not, none refused. Even Bofiadus and the garrison joined willingly—for families fled to the heartland.
Flutter, flutter.
The rain-soaked standard flapped limply.
Mud clung to the road.
Imperial golden age roads were flawless; now even highways decayed.
Yet layered four deep with tight-set stones, they endured. They'd outlast centuries more.
Like this road, worn but functional, we'd fulfill our role, I told myself.
Heigirt terrified, but his rearguard less so. We'd draw him back.
Trudging on, a few laggards broke formation—fatigue no training fixed. Dodging rain, I fell back.
"Maximus. Struggling?"
The straggler was one of my named slave recruits.
The scrawny youth nodded weakly.
"You're fine. Doing great."
"Am I a burden?"
"No. No one thinks that. You're a fine legionary, my comrade."
"Yes, sir."
I encouraged him, pacing the slaves.
As I dropped back, Rikius slowed the column.
Fortunately, rain paused for dinner.
We spread tent cloth on sodden ground, chopped driest wood. Fires roared; hot food revived weary faces.
Some coughed—worrisome.
Marching in rain was never good.
"Hoo."
Checking troops, I patrolled the camp—for enemy scouts.
Returning, Rikius had my bedroll ready.
They urged rest; sleep evaded. I sent Rubiot and Cogol ahead, took watch. Doubts swirled: Was I dooming the legion?
Certainty was elusive. Leaders were solitary, wracked by endless doubt and torment.
Yet thinking must never stop. Facing Heigirt, king of barbarian guile—striking his heart meant vigilance. Simplistic charges were lion-baiting.
Creper, stronger than us, and Sextus fell for underthinking him.
Thus, caution. No easy answers—doubt eternally.
Decide when needed, bear the weight alone.
Only way to repay trusting men.
Lost in thought, Rikius approached.
He read my face: Worried?
Yeah. Can't fool you.
I nodded.
"Sir, may I say something?"
"Go ahead."
"How long have we served together?"
"Lost count, but years. No comrade longer, save Rubiot."
"Yes. I've watched you that whole time. Know why I could trust and follow?"
"My luck?"
He grinned.
"Confidence. You always commanded with it—even in defeat, sky falling. Sir, your assured face banishes our fears."
Was that true?
My mood lightened.
"You're right. Got lost in heavy thoughts, dulled my edge. Not like me, Rikius."
"Yes, sir."
"Thanks."
He smiled.
"Now you're the commander."
"Right. Befitting the 16th's eagle, Ain. Go rest. I'll follow soon."
"Yes, sir."
I sent him off, gazed skyward.
With comrades like these, faltering confidence shamed me. Even to hell, smiling.
I thumped my chest lightly.
It swelled, taut with resolve.
(To be continued next time)